


Holiday Spending

by tisfan



Series: Open Ask Prompts [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bad Decisions, Break Up, Chocolate, Christmas Fluff, Craigslist, Cruise, Easter, Eating Disorders, Even Tony, Everyone Loves Bucky, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Mardi Gras, Never Have I Ever, New Year's Eve, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Use Your Words, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Victim Blaming, define the relationship, drunken party games, everybody sleeps with clint, pay for boyfriend, sex on the stairs, when your ex shows up unexpectedly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-02 22:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8685472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: anonymous asked:Winteriron collage au w/fake relationship; Tony asks Bucky to be his fake boyfriend, either to shake off some matchmaking friends or to piss off Howard. Turns out Bucky is all Tony ever wanted in a boyfriend. Too bad it's not real (extra angst if Tony paid for Bucky to act as his boyfriend, now Tony wonders if it was all for the money). Happy ending?Note: This fic gets dark after some fluff; happy ending promised, but that's not what you're getting right now.





	1. All I Buy For Christmas

Not looking forward to Christmas this year? Parents nagging on you to settle down, get a man, get a life, get a job? I can make you look better, or at least make them look stupid. 

I am a 28 year old disabled military vet with a prosthetic arm -- I think it’s cool, but it tends to freak people out. I have visible tattoos on my neck and arm and I have long, rough-cut hair. I generally rock the three-day stubble, but I can shave and look cleaned up, if you prefer. I work as a bouncer in a stripclub. If you'd like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Christmas, but have me pretend to be in a very long or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I'm game. 

All I need is a free dinner and a six pack of microbrew. For a twenty-dollar gift card to starbucks, I will also talk about politics and religion (whichever side you want me to be on, I was on the debate team in high school). I can also openly hit on other guests (male or female, I swing both ways) pretend to get really drunk and start a fistfight with a member of your family on the front lawn in full view of the neighbors. 

* * *

 

Really, Tony wasn’t going to call the number, even though he’d torn the one of the strips off the flier when he’d seen it. He’d carried the number around in his jeans pocket for most of the day and then entered the digits into his phone. And forgotten about it. Until his mother had called and nagged him about what his plans were for Christmas. She’d talked pointedly about Janet Van Dyne, who was just lovely, and maybe Tony could consider -- 

“Actually, Mom,” Tony interrupted, desperately. Not that he didn’t like Janet, she was a sweet girl, but they’d known each other since they were in diapers, and besides, he happened to know for a fact that she was nursing a crush on Hank Pym, and Pym had yet to get his head out of his ass long enough to notice. “I was wondering if I could bring a date home with me.” 

“A date, Tony?” His mother probed with all the delicacy of an Area 52 alien. “Are you actually seeing someone?” 

“It might be a thing,” Tony said. “I don’t know, we haven’t been seeing each other long, but their family's too far away to visit for the time they have off from work, and I just don’t like seeing people alone on Christmas.” Okay, that might have been pushing it. His mother was many things, but the likelihood of her falling for him doing anything for _altruism_ was probably pushing it. 

And the whole not using single pronouns things; he’d come out to his parents as bisexual years ago, but both of them were choosing to view the whole thing as a phase that he’d grow out of, especially since he’d never actually dated any men. (He’d picked up a few, cruised and been cruised enough to know what he was doing, but those were one-night stands, and sometimes just blowjobs in bar bathrooms, and not the sort of thing that he had actually managed to talk about with his parents, even though he considered it sometimes when his mom was being particularly pointed in her matchmaking efforts.) 

“You,” his mom said. He could almost hear her eyebrows rising over the phone. “You have a date. That you want to bring home for Christmas?” 

“Yeah, maybe. I haven’t asked yet, wanted to make sure it was okay with you before I got their hopes up,” Tony said. 

“Yes.” 

“Yes?” 

“Yes, Tony,” she said. “Please. Bring your date. I can have the maids make up the marshmallow room. By all means, I’d love to meet your friend.” 

Tony swallowed hard. The marshmallow room -- so named because the bed in there was particularly fluffy and ridiculous -- was next door to his own bedroom at the mansion, and what was more, had an adjoining passage. Holy shit. His mother was actually giving him tacit permission to have premarital under her roof. He walked over to the window and looked out. Nope, sun was not falling out of the sky. She must be more worried about his continued bachelorhood than she was willing to admit. 

“Okay,” Tony said, his heart beating ridiculously fast in his chest. “Okay. I’ll let you know tomorrow or Friday if they can come with.” 

“Thank you, darling,” his mom said. “Love you.” 

“Love you, too, Mom,” Tony said. Jesus, now he was in trouble. He disconnected the call and sat down, hard, on his bed. He needed a date. Jesus. 

* * *

 

“This is Barnes, go,” the man said. His voice was low-pitched and smokey, like he’d just rolled out of bed. 

“Hi,” Tony said, pacing around his room. “I, um… saw your flier. You --”

 “Oh, shit, yeah, the Christmas thing? Really? That’s cool. Didn’t think anyone was actually gonna call, but hell, I spent the last two years eatin’ turkey tv dinner and man, that blows.”

 “So, you don’t have a date yet?” 

“Nope,” Barnes said. “You plannin’ on a shocking coming out to your folks over Christmas? That’s the spirit.” 

“I’m out,” Tony muttered, “but they don’t really believe me. I haven’t brought anyone home, male or female, and my mother’s trying to set me up. It’s embarrassing.” 

“I hear that,” Barnes said. 

“Query,” Tony said. “I um… live about a four hour drive from here, so we’d be staying overnight at my folks -- separate bedrooms, of course -- but would eight hours in a car, spend Christmas eve and leave after dinner the next day be cool with you? I can pay you more; three hundred bucks. Plus we always have prime rib for Christmas Eve dinner.” 

“What do your folks do for Christmas breakfast?” Barnes asked. 

“Um, we eat cookies while we open presents?” That had always been the tradition when Tony was a kid, and the only change there’d been is that more recently, Tony’d been partaking in the mimosas along with breakfast instead of hot chocolate. 

“Do I need to get you a present?”

“I can buy one, if you want to hand me something,” Tony said. This was getting more complicated by the moment, but at least if he bought his own gift, he was pretty sure he’d like it, and Barnes would -- “Oh, hey, what’s your name? I don’t think calling you by your surname is going to win me any points with my mom.” 

Barnes laughed, which sent weird shivers down Tony’s spine. He laughed with the kind of open joy that was a pleasure to hear. “It’s James,” he said. “But my friends call me Bucky. What’s your name, boyfriend?” 

“Tony. Tony Stark.” 

Bucky gulped, audibly enough to be heard on the phone. “Wait, Anthony Stark? Son of Howard Stark?” 

 _Sigh_. “That’s me.” 

“What the actual fuck, dude?” Bucky said. “I know you got cash, man, can’t you hire a high-end call girl or somethin’?” 

“I can pay you more,” Tony offered. That was stupid, but there was something about that laugh and that ad and now Tony was getting his back up. He didn’t even care now, he wanted _Bucky_ as his date, and Tony rarely backed down from anything he wanted. 

“Nah,” Bucky said, “three hundred and the beer is great. But I ain’t gonna get in a fist-fight with _Howard Stark_. Argue, sure, but gettin’ arrested and then sued into the ground ain’t my idea of a fun time.” 

“Sure, sure,” Tony said, grinning. “Look, send me a pic and I’ll work the details with you next week, okay?” 

“Gotcha. I look like hell, right now,” Bucky warned. “Jus’ got up and I work nights, so, ain’t my best.” 

“As long as I can recognize you to pick you up, that’s as good as it needs to be.” 

“Gotcha,” Bucky said, and then disconnected.

A few minutes later, Tony’s phone buzzed. He swiped the text open. And almost dropped his phone. 

 _Holy shit._ The guy was hot, and not like in a _oh, he’s cute_ sort of way but in the _dear god, fuck me now_ , sort of way. He was sprawled out, casual-like, on what was obvious his bed, the pillow behind his head and sheets pulled over his hips. His chest was bare, heavily tattooed on the right side of his ribs, over his shoulder and disappeared up the arm he was using to hold the camera. The other arm was artificial from the shoulder down, shiny segmented steel and he had the hand behind his head. His hair, as promised, was long and half in his face, tangled and flat on one side. He had vivid blue bedroom eyes and a full, pouting mouth. He had smears of eyeliner around his eyes, giving him the appearance of a hungover raccoon and the kind of scruff that Tony knew left wicked beard burns. 

 _Still want me to be your fake date?_  

Tony stared at the picture. _Oh, my god, no. I want you to be my real date._ Not that he could say that. 

 _You’ll do._  

* * *

 

Bucky had the hoodlum lean down pat, Tony decided. He pulled the Audi Spyder up to the curb in front of the address Bucky’d given him and the man detached himself from the shadows like he’d come in first place in spy class. 

“Sweet ride,” Bucky whistled, his right hand hovering just above the slick silver metal as if he was scared to touch it. Tony popped the front trunk and grabbed the overnight bag Bucky left on the sidewalk in his astonishment. 

“Thanks,” Tony said. “Only thing Howard disapproves of more than me is sick German engineering, so I make sure I’ve always got at least one Audi in the garage at all times.” 

“So, pretend-boyfriend,” Bucky said, glancing up from the car, his brilliant blue eyes sharp, “how you wanna play this? You want me to be the shit-heel that makes your mom hope you never bring a man home again, or the loving, cuddly sort that pisses your dad off?” 

“Let’s go with option number two, if you’re okay with that,” Tony said, because he did not actually want to upset his mom, he just wanted her to leave him alone to live his life. And pissing off Howard was at least a thirty-percent weigh-in factor to every decision Tony had made since he was about fifteen years old, at least. 

Bucky took two deep breaths, like he was steadying himself. “Okay, then,” he said. “We need to practice, then.” 

“Hu --” 

Tony didn’t even get the word out before Bucky had pulled up into his personal space, hand on the back of Tony’s neck. The words dried up in Tony’s mouth as he found himself hyper-focused on Bucky’s mouth, the plush, red lower lip. Bucky’s tongue darted out to lick his lips and -- _just practice_ \-- Tony tipped his head into the kiss. 

Maybe Bucky had meant it just as practice, a quick taste to make sure they didn’t utterly repulse each other and blow the act. Sure, that’s all it was, Tony’s brain said frantically. Quick, soft brushes of Bucky’s mouth against his, no tongue, just a gentle, searing touch. Tony inhaled, his mouth parting involuntarily and that spark of heat turned into an inferno. Without quite knowing how it happened, Tony found himself pushed over, laid out on the hood of his car, the grill of his car harsh against his ass, Bucky’s leg between his thighs, being out and out _devoured_. 

Tony grabbed frantically, taking a huge handful of Bucky’s coat and pulled him closer, feeling the man grinding in slow, burning circles against Tony’s thigh. 

“Oh, my god,” Bucky murmured against Tony’s mouth, then possessed him again, tongue and lips and hot breath, smelling of bodywash and coffee, tasting a little like maple syrup, and Tony couldn’t get enough. He’d never been so affected by a kiss before, wasn’t sure what to do, just held on and wanted it to never stop. 

Finally, someone blaring the horn at them recalled both of them to the fact that they were all but fucking on top of Tony’s two-hundred-thousand dollar sports car. Bucky flipped the driver off without looking, but pulled back. He nuzzled one last time at Tony’s mouth, then straightened, tugging his jacket back into place. 

“Well, I don’t think we’re gonna have any trouble convincing your parents of anything,” Bucky said, grinning, his neck coloring a little. 

“Right,” Tony said, and then because he couldn’t take how overwhelmed and vulnerable he was feeling for something that was a lie, he added in, “I’m not paying extra for those kisses.” 

* * *

 

Tony is a genius. 

Most of the time, that doesn’t really mean anything in particular. Geniuses don’t apply their brain power as much as other people assume. They go about their day, get worried about stupid shit, forget their laundry in the washer until it needs to run again because it’s all mildewed. But then they get focused on a thing, miracles happen. 

On the other hand, when they fuck up, it’s often exponentially worse. Tony’s fuck ups have resulted in actual explosions, so he knows what he’s talking about. 

This one, however, was contained to the four by four inch space under his rib-cage where his heart was located. 

Asking Bucky to be his fake date was the worst decision he’d ever made in his entire career of bad decisions and careless errors. 

Without a doubt, Bucky was going after every single one of Tony’s weaknesses with an ice-cream scoop, pulling little bits of him out without even being aware that he was doing it. 

Drop-over dead sexy? Check. 

Loved fast cars and encouraged Tony to drive faster instead of clinging to the oh-shit handle and fretting about getting a ticket? Check. 

Science-fiction nerd and able to both speak a few lines of Klingon and argue the logistics of Next Generation economics with a straight face? Check.

Heavy metal and hard rock fan? Check. 

Sarcastic, sassy, and prone to getting giggle-fits at bad puns? Check. 

Was it even possible that any of it was real? Tony kept his eyes on the road, or tried to. He kept sneaking peeks at his fake boyfriend and the spark of want that Bucky had touched off when they kissed just kept smoldering in his belly, refusing to go out. 

* * *

 

Bucky turned terror-struck eyes on Tony as he climbed out of the Audi, then stared back at Stark Mansion. “You grew up here?” 

Tony rolled his eyes expressively. “As Howard would tell it, I haven’t grown up _yet_.” 

Bucky snagged his arm as Tony grabbed their luggage. “Don’t leave me alone in there,” he said. “I’ll get lost.” 

“Don’t worry,” Tony said. He bounced up onto his tiptoes and kissed Bucky’s cheek. “Crazy in love, remember? I won’t let you out of my sight.” 

Jarvis greeted them at the door, took the bags, which befuddled Bucky with how very smooth the butler was at divesting people of their coats, gear, and belongings while keeping up a cheerful, animated conversation. Missus was out shopping, Jarvis expected her back within the next two hours, Sir was finishing some business at Stark Industries and was expected back before dinner, hopefully, but young sir knew how that often went, but Sir had said not to wait, and if the young masters would care for cookies, Ana had a few fresh batches in the kitchen, and of course young sir knows the way. 

“Happy Christmas, Jarvis,” Tony said, hugging the butler, which was returned with awkward affection. Jarvis was seventy percent of the reason Tony had survived his childhood, the other thirty percent was Ana’s cooking, so he grabbed Bucky’s hand and dragged him off in the direction of the more mundane parts of the house. 

The kitchen was Ana Jarvis’s personal domain and she ruled there with an iron fist, or so Tony’s mom would say. Tony’d never seen anything from Ana aside from slightly wistful happiness, adoration for her husband, pride in her cooking, and a certain exasperated fondness for Tony’s pranks and mischief. 

“This is your young man?” Ana asked, brightening visibly as the two men ducked into the kitchen. “Ma’am told me you were expecting a guest. I’m delighted for you, child.” Ana clutched Tony’s hands and drew him in for a kiss on the cheek, which had the unexpected side-effect of making Tony feel like a complete shit. Of _course_ Ana was going to be happy for him, she’d always worried that he had trouble making friends, and someone that he actually cared about enough to bring home, to risk exposing to Howard Stark. Shit, he hadn’t really thought about the long-term consequences and Ana was going to be furious, either with him, or for him, when the fake relationship was over. 

“Yeah,” Tony said, one-hundred percent aware of the sharp look Ana shot him. “This is James Barnes. Bucky, this is Ana Jarvis, our housekeeper and cook.” 

“She of the perfect cranberry velvet,” Bucky said, drawing a simple fact from the many, many stories Tony had told on the trip up, which had the bonus effect of both making Ana smile with pleasure and putting a halt to the stink eye she was giving Tony. “I’ve been looking forward to it, ma’am.” 

“Oh, you,” Ana said, swatting Tony with affection. “There’s a plate of cookies for you on the table. And stay out of your father’s scotch.” 

“Not happening,” Tony called, already halfway to Howard’s study with the plate in one hand and Bucky’s wrist in the other. “Thanks, Ana.” 

“Are we really stealing your dad’s scotch?” Bucky asked as the study door swung closed on silent hinges behind them. 

“Hell, yes,” Tony said. “Howard stocks the good stuff.” He was already opening the cut-crystal decanter and pouring himself a glass of the smooth, honey-yellow liquid. He handed Bucky off a tumbler, then committed the ultimate indecency and dipped the ginger cookie into his glass. Oh, god, heaven in a mouthful. He sagged against Howard’s desk in ecstasy. 

“That is just criminal,” Bucky said, taking a small sip from his own glass, closing his eyes and swallowing reverently. No, Tony thought, what was criminal was how much his dick twitched, watching Bucky’s throat work. Jesus, he wasn’t going to survive this particular piece of bullshit he’d brought on himself. 

Because Tony was an ass, he left the empty plate and both glasses on Howard’s desk. Jarvis would probably collect them before Howard found the mess and tidied it up, but maybe, just once, he might get lucky. 

He wasn’t going to waste a minute of Bucky’s company, so rather than dropping him off at his room, Tony gave him the grand tour -- Jarvis would personally have been offended if Tony had called it the nickel-tour, since Ma’am had done almost all the decorating herself and if there was anyone that Jarvis held more in awe than his wife, it was Mrs. Maria Stark -- everything from Howard’s vast wine cellar below street-level all the way up to the ostentatious turrets on each of the four corners, one of which was the remnants of Tony’s first robotics lab. 

Most of what was left in the lab were some of his programmed fighting-bots, dozens of schematics, some rolled up neatly and some left, spread, all over the workstation, tools that he’d improved or replaced over the years, a couple of sketches of DUM-E, his first actual autonomous bot (who was probably making a mess of Tony’s dorm room back on campus because he was pretty sure he’d actually forgotten to tell DUM-E to power down for a few days and if there was anything Tony was positive of, it was that DUM-E was going to get bored inside of eight hours.) and a shelf crammed with old trophies and awards. 

Bucky kept his hands behind his back for most of the tour, but once they were in the workshop, he was all over everything, spreading the schematics out for a closer look and asking questions. He picked up and read every single one of Tony’s trophies and certificates, and flipped through a couple of the manuals Tony had written on care and maintenance for the battle bots. “Wow,” Bucky said, finally. “This is… so cool, Tony.” 

Whatever Tony was going to say to that was interrupted by a yellow light flashing in the corner of the ‘shop. “Oh, look, mom’s home,” Tony said. Jarvis never missed a trick; it’d been seven years since Tony lived at home, but Jarvis was still pressing the alert as Maria came in the front door. Tony’d set up amber lights for his mother in most of the rooms he occupied regularly, and red ones for Howard. It never, ever did for either of them to come across him unaware. Maria would fuss that he shouldn’t have his feet on the table, or sit so slouched, or look so grouchy, or any of a hundred other mother-hen-fussery and Howard was just as apt to throw something at Tony or yell. Nothing that he did changed either of those two reactions, but at least he had some warning. 

Tony found himself once again in possession of Bucky’s hand, the fingers strong and slender and warm, as they went downstairs so that Tony could introduce his mother to his fake boyfriend. 

* * *

 

That Maria would like Bucky was something Tony could have guessed; his mom would have liked Jack the Ripper if Tony had brought him home and introduced him as _someone special_. Maria was still -- probably wrong -- of the opinion that Tony deserved someone good and wonderful who would make him happy. And weirdly enough, Tony found himself smiling more, laughing louder, when Bucky was there in the room, lighting up everything around him with that broad grin of his. Bucky proved himself an attentive listener for Maria’s socialite stories, mentioned that his sister was a professional ballerina -- and Maria had to drag them both into the conservatory to pull out her folio of old playbills until Bucky found one that his sister had actually been in, a four-years-past production of _Romeo & Juliet _with Natasha Romanov (a stage name, as Natalie Barnes didn’t have any sort of majesty to it, Bucky said, grinning) as the Lady Capulet -- and was immediately Maria’s favorite. 

That much Tony could understand, even appreciate. 

 _Howard_ taking an immediate liking to Bucky was another matter altogether. Howard had shown up halfway through Christmas Eve dinner, still talking on his cellphone and paused only to let Jarvis know to put out two more place settings, a colleague was just behind him and should be arriving with his wife shortly, dropped into his customary seat at the head of the table, drank two glasses of wine before finally putting the phone away, then blinked. 

“Who are you?” Howard demanded of Bucky. 

“Hey Dad,” Tony said, drawing Howard’s attention for about half a second before his father continued his study of the stranger at his table. “This is my boyfriend, James Barnes.” 

If Howard had hoped Tony was over his bisexual phase or even slightly dismayed by a long-haired, tattooed man at his dinner table, none of that was evident in his flash of a smile and the greeting. “Oh. Well, hello, then,” Howard said, then turned the conversation easily, drawing his wife into a sympathetic rant about Hammer Tech and their latest marketing disaster. 

Bucky had obviously done his goddamn research, because he knew quite a bit about the Hammer Tech situation, asked Howard a few pointed questions, and listened intently when Howard answered them, which whenever Tony did something like that, he was accused of pandering, which annoyed Tony just a bit, but mostly he just sat back and watched his pretend boyfriend charm the living shit out of his parents and started to wonder if it was possible to put Bucky on permanent retainer. Because it would make holidays and vacations with his parents easier and had nothing at all to do with the fact that Tony was also completely charmed by the man and wanted to spend more time with him. That was completely irrelevant. 

And then Howard’s guests arrived and the whole evening went straight to hell. 

* * *

 

Jarvis coughed and Howard stood up to greet his friends. A matched set, both tall, blond and beautiful, the couple entered the room arm in arm. The man smiled, huge and friendly, at Howard. 

“Darling, I’d like you to meet Captain Steve Rogers and his wife, Sharon. Come in, come in. Captain, this is my wife, Maria, my son Anthony and his friend --” 

“Bucky,” Steve said, his eyes going wide. 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Howard asked, cocking his head to one side. 

 _What the actual hell?_ Tony turned to look at Bucky. All the blood had drained from his face, giving Bucky the look of a man who has seen a ghost. Bucky was half-standing, like a frightened animal getting ready to bolt for the shelter of the trees. 

Bucky took a few, deep inhales, then shook himself. “Steve,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here. This is Tony, my boyfriend. Hi Sharon, nice to meet you at last, Steve’s told me so much about you. You’re as lovely as I imagined.” If Tony hadn’t known what Bucky’s real smile looked like, he would have been fooled; Sharon Rogers obviously was, likewise Howard and Maria. Everyone sat down and dinner went on as usual. Only Steve and Tony seemed to notice anything amiss with Bucky’s behavior. 

When dinner broke up, Howard invited everyone back to the library for port. 

Bucky grabbed Tony’s hand and held him back as the dining room cleared. “I… gotta…” he stammered, not meeting Tony’s gaze. “I… shit…” 

“You want to go for a walk?” Tony asked. “We can take a turn around the block, it’ll be romantic.” 

“Yeah, that’d be… that’d be swell,” Bucky said. When Tony pressed his fingers against Bucky’s wrist, he noticed the man’s heart rate was through the roof. 

“Hey, J,” Tony said, drawing Bucky out into the entrance way. “Can we get our coats? Bucky and I are gonna take a stroll. Tell Mom we’ll be back in an hour or so, okay?” 

“Certainly, young sir,” Jarvis said. 

Outside, just down from the door, Bucky started hyperventilating, drawing huge gasps of air, his breath pluming out in front of him. He shivered, not from the cold, and Tony drew him back into one of the house’s lower floor alcoves that Bucky might have a bit of privacy. “Hey, hey,” Tony said, rubbing his hand in soothing circles on the back of Bucky’s jacket. “You… want to talk about it?” 

Bucky leaned hard against Tony, his shakes were bad enough that they rattled Tony’s teeth. “Steve’s… my ex.” 

“Shit,” Tony said, rolling his tongue over his teeth. “That’s… small world, really. I’m sorry, I had no idea Howard was bringing anyone home for dinner.” 

“Sharon doesn’t know, that we were together, I mean,” Bucky continued. “Hell, I didn’t know about _Sharon_ until everything was over. We were friends in high school, and then in the army, but… it wasn’t until we got home that things went… well, Steve had this whole gay/straight panic thing about a year ago, started coming to the strip club where I work, spending money on the girls, but flirting with me. I… dunno, I was in a bad place for a relationship and Steve was. I don’t know; he gave me a whole line about finding his true place in the world. Next thing I know, he’s getting married to this woman --” Bucky broke off, drawing another breath. “We were only together for like two months, but.” 

“He broke your heart,” Tony filled in. 

“I dunno if I’d say that,” Bucky objected, but Tony had seen the truth in his eyes. If he wasn’t now, Bucky had once been in love with Captain Rogers. “Just felt… _betrayed_. He was datin’ both of us at the same time, like he was runnin’ a god damn sex competition or something.” 

“Well, that’s a shitty way to treat someone,” Tony said. “I don’t care how confused you are about your sexuality, you don’t fuck with other people just to figure it out.” 

Bucky coughed uncomfortably. “Yeah, well, “ he said, “I mighta sent him an email last week, tellin’ him about this guy I met an’... I dunno…” 

“You told him about me,” Tony surmised. “So he’d know you moved on.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted. “Childish, I know.” 

“You say to the guy who’s paying you to keep my parents from nagging me,” Tony reminded him. 

“You ain’t doing that to hurt anyone,” Bucky protested. 

“But I’m going to,” Tony said. “Ana loves you already. So does my mom. Hell, Howard was actually talking to you like you were a real person; which I might add, he never does for _me_. Nobody’s gonna be happy with me when I tell them I let you get away.” _For that matter, I don’t think I’m going to forgive myself for it._  

* * *

 

After a few glasses of Maria’s best sherry, Bucky was giggly and handsy, and Tony would have enjoyed a lot more -- Bucky pulled him into his lap and rested his forehead against Tony’s arm -- if he hadn’t been getting the slant-eye from Captain Rogers. If Tony could pretend for two minutes that any of this was real, that any of it was for him. 

But it wasn’t; the whole situation was half parental distraction, the other half was some sort of vengeance-happiness warred against Bucky’s ex. 

And just when Tony was starting to relax, Captain Rogers pulled him aside for a fucking shovel talk, and that was just unbelievable. 

“Look,” Rogers said, his voice down, his hand a little uncomfortably tight about Tony’s bicep. “I know he told you about us, I could see that the way you looked at me at dinner, and… I wanted to say I’m happy for him, I really am. I made mistakes where Bucky was concerned, and I’m sorry about it.” 

“Yeah, Katie Perry,” Tony snorted. “I know. You’re a real stand-up guy.” 

Rogers winced at that. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said. 

“Well, that’s good,” Tony snapped back, “because I don’t. How… Bucky’s the best guy I’ve met in a long time, and I don’t understand how you could throw that away with both hands and a shovel. So, what, you’re here to tell me not to hurt the guy after you, what? Invited him to your goddamn wedding.” 

Score a hit there; Rogers actually blanched. “He is a good guy,” Steve said. “He deserves more than I could give him. I… hope you’re up to it.” 

Tony had nothing to say to that, contented himself with rolling his eyes extravagantly. “Go to hell, Rogers.” 

* * *

 

Bucky had him up against the door to Tony’s bedroom, hands in Tony’s hair and kissed him. Tony would have been half-dead not to respond to that sinful mouth, the sweep of Bucky’s tongue knocked aside all his defenses and reservations, and Tony groaned, swaying into the kiss. Clinging to Bucky’s shirt like his life depended on it. 

They kissed there, in the hallway, until Maria’s voice interrupted them with a slightly amused, “Goodnight, boys.” 

“Night, Mom,” Tony muttered, hiding his face against Bucky’s chest. 

“Goodnight, Mrs. Stark.” 

Tony nudged Bucky in the direction of the marshmallow room and after a moment, he went, closing the door behind him. Tony let himself breathe for a few minutes, still leaning against his bedroom door and then went in. 

A few minutes later, the adjoining door between the two rooms opened and Bucky came in. 

“Don’t,” Tony said. 

“You --” 

“Don’t use me to wash the taste of Steve Rogers out of your mouth. Please. Because I will let you, I’m not that strong. And I don’t want to be the mistake you’re regretting, okay?” 

“I wouldn’t regret it,” Bucky said, “but I can see now that it would be a mistake. Sorry.” 

Tony waited until he left, the adjoining door closing between them. He stood, crossed the room and laid his fingertips against the wood, already sorry that he’d chased the man away. What would it have hurt, just to have it for once, to pretend that it was something he could have? 

 _Me. It would hurt me._  

* * *

 

Tony had years of training, public appearances from the time he was four years old, that let him slap a smile on his face and enjoy Christmas with his family. Bucky curled around him for most of the morning, let his chin rest on Tony’s shoulder, and made small talk with his parents. 

Howard brought everyone outside to show off his new Bugatti (well, technically, an old Bugatti that Maria had found for him and had restored, and it was a beautiful machine that left Tony utterly cold.) Maria had new pearls, a costly double-strand for her slender throat and a pair of earrings that were the same color. From his parents, the usual fare of clothes and books. The fake present from Bucky, a soft cotton tee with the Star Trek logo on it. To Bucky, he’d given a starbucks gift card, which got an elaborate eye-roll. 

The Starks went through four bottles of champagne before Ana finished with the turkey. Tony was pretty damn sure he was better basted than the bird by the time he stumbled to the table. Painfully, Tony stopped letting Jarvis refill his wine glass that he might sober up and be allowed to drive home as soon as dinner was over. He couldn’t take much more of this. 

* * *

 

The car ride back wasn’t quiet, but Tony kept the music too loud to have easy conversation over it. 

“Here,” Tony said, handing Bucky the three hundred in a clipped stack of twenties. “Appreciate the save.” 

Bucky folded his fingers over the bills slowly. “You know, I didn’t want you to have buyer’s remorse…” 

“Come on,” Tony objected. “We both got into this knowing exactly what it was. Take the money. You earned it.” 

“No, we didn’t,” Bucky said. “And I don’t want your money, Tony. I had a really good time, right up until my ex made it weird. You don’t owe me shit. You got out of me exactly what I wanted to give you.” 

Tony blurted, “But you said it would be a mistake.” 

“And it was going to be,” Bucky said, “because you weren’t gonna believe it was anything but a rebound thing. So… I don’t want you to think about me that way.” He leaned over and kissed Tony on the mouth, slow and sweet and warm, then pulled back. “Merry Christmas, Tony.” With that, he was gone, leaving Tony in shock, sitting in his car, watching him walk away. 

* * *

 

Two days later, Tony composed and sent the following text: 

 _If youre still looking for work I could use a date for this New Year’s party_  

He very painfully did not check his phone every ten minutes for the rest of the afternoon. And when the phone finally buzzed around four in the afternoon, he almost dropped it in a puddle of slushy, melted snow. 

 _You couldnt pay me enough to pretend to be your boyfriend again_  

Tony considered that for a few minutes while trying to remember how to breathe. He was shaking by the time he decided what he wanted to say, and struggled to pull his glove off so that the touch screen worked. 

 _So youre gonna throw me a freebee_  

 _No  
__Dont jerk me around tony. If you want to ask me on a date just ask me. Dont play like it dont matter to you._  

Tony poked around on his phone for a few minutes until he located the eye-roll emoji. 

 _Mr. Barnes, if you would be so kind as to grant me to pleasure of your company to a New Year’s Party, I will be forever in your debt._  

Tony got back an emoji with a ghost coming out of its mouth. 

 _Youre kiling me here. Doubting your sincerity._  

Tony glowered at his phone for a long moment, then punched the call button. 

“Barnes, go,” Bucky said. _Asshole_. Like he didn’t know it was Tony calling. 

“Do you want to go out with me or not?” 

“You really know how to be charming, don’tcha?” Bucky said and Tony could hear the grin in his voice. 

“Why are you making this so complicated?” 

“It ain’t,” Bucky said. “But we started off all wrong, an’ I’d really like to make an honest effort of it, second time around. But not if it ain’t worth the time for you, you know?” 

“Okay,” Tony said, chewing on his thumbnail. “Honest effort. Would you please come with me to this New Year’s party?” 

“I’d like that,” Bucky said. “I’d like it a lot.” 

“Then it’s a date,” Tony said. “I’ll text you with the details.” 

“It’s a date.”


	2. Renting in the New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to take you up on the offer of prompting a continuation of the christmas fake date fic, with Bucky's POV. It would be really nice to get to see their first real date/kiss at New Years. So if you ever feel inspired to write that, well, I know I'd love to see it at least! ~ R

Bucky believed in love at first sight. He knew for a fact it was real, because he kept fucking doing it. What he didn’t believe in was Happily Ever After.

He’d been in love with Steve Rogers from the first instant he’d seen him, freshman year of high school. Steve, tall, blonde, perfect, smart, talented, artistic. Head of the debate team. The Captain of the football team (the Patriots, and DAMN didn’t that boy look fine in his football uniform?) who’d taken it on himself to make the new kid from Indiana feel welcome. Bucky didn’t have a prayer. He’d nursed a crush and then when Steve had finally taken him up on an offer (Steve knew Bucky was queer, everyone knew Bucky was queer, he’d been flirting with Steve for years without expectations) Bucky’d said goodbye to his heart and given it over to Steve without reservation. 

One might think he’d learned his lesson. 

Wrong-o. 

Maybe, _maybe_ Bucky hadn’t quite fallen in love with Tony at first sight; but it was somewhere between the moment he’d kissed Tony and the fifth bad tree-related pun Tony had cracked in the car between Boston and Tony’s parent’s enormous home in the middle of New York City.

And Bucky had allowed himself to feel it; he was supposed to be madly in love with the guy who’d answered his flier anyway. It made the act look better, that was the excuse he gave himself and if he was lying to himself, that was his own problem. If he broke his own heart (again) maybe it would teach him to stop falling in love so damn fast.

 _Dont jerk me around tony. If you want to ask me on a date just ask me. Dont play like it dont matter to you._  
  
Tony had been so damn easy to fall in love with, though. He was smart as a whip, cute as a button and every second of that day had been about what more could Bucky ask for and Tony saying “Challenge; accepted!” 

 _Pick you up around 9?_  

 _Cant wait._  

If he’d been left to his own devices, he’d probably have gotten really fucking broody about it between when Tony called for a date and New Year’s eve. 

But Tash, finally home from the ballet company’s European tour of the Nutcracker, hadn’t allowed it. She’d taken one look at her older brother’s face, rolled her eyes, and proceeded to annoy the shit out of him for the next three days. 

 _Just come on up  
_ _Doorbells broken  
_ _i;ll leave the door open_  

“Christ, Tash,” Bucky said, staring into the empty box of chocolate covered cherries. “I said you could have _some_.” 

“That was some,” she said, unrepentant. 

“There are _ten_ cherries in these boxes,” Bucky said, throwing the empty plastic trays at her. “I had _one_.” 

“It’s hardly my fault that you eat chocolate like you’re afraid the government’s going to start rationing it,” Tash said. “They were on the table all afternoon. How am I supposed to resist that?” 

“Because, theoretically, you’re an adult now!” Bucky yelled. He threw the box at her, while he was at it. Air resistance was a thing, because he missed. 

“Oh, that’s mature, you’re such a good role model. I should immediately go out and get you more cherries to make up for my terrible, greedy ways. Not.” She scooped the tray up and threw it back at him. Unfairly, her aim was a lot better than his. 

After that, there really was no other option than to chase his sister all over the apartment, and he was just in the process of doing that when Tony came up the stairs and into their loft. Unfortunately, that was the direction Tash was bolting in, and she plowed into him, full force. Bucky was right behind her, got his metal hand clamped down on the banister and caught Tony ‘round the waist just before he went tumbling back down the steps. 

“Ow. Who put a date-boy in my way?” Tash sat up from her sprawled position on the floor to gingerly pat at her nose. 

“Your face isn’t any more terrible than normal, brat,” Bucky retorted, pulling Tony to his feet. “You okay?” 

“I think my life flashed before my eyes,” Tony said, putting one hand over his chest. 

“All six seconds of it,” Tash said. She licked her thumb and then rubbed it over Tony’s beard. “Did you draw this thing in with a Sharpie? How old are you, fifteen? Yasha, really, you’re dating an infant? Seriously?”  

Bucky let go of his grip on the bannister to groan and hide his face in his palm. “Tony, this is my sister, Natasha. She’s horrible, don’t listen to _anything_ she says. Tash, this is Tony Stark. Try not to be an utter train wreck for ten minutes, okay? Please?” 

“Me?” Tony looked both aghast and a little bit guilty.

“No, _her_ ,” Bucky said, snorting a laugh. 

“He already knows you’re irredeemable,” Tash said. “There’s still hope for me.” 

“No, there isn’t. There really, really isn’t.” 

“You would look more impressive saying that sort of thing if you weren’t half-dressed and still wet from your shower, brother-mine,” Tash said, smirking. 

 _Oh, fucking christ_. Bucky had forgotten he’d been in the process of getting dressed -- he’d walked out into the living room in just his jeans to ask his sister if she’d stolen his hair gel (which she probably had, because his sister was a fucking mooch. And she was on the road all the time, so she misplaced most of her own shit, or ran out, or had left it at the troupe’s theater.) to discover her eating the last of his chocolate covered cherries. 

Aaand, he was holding Tony way too entire close for a second date. While wearing only jeans and wet hair. _Jesus christ._ “I’m… er… gonna go finish getting ready. Don’t talk to my sister. And you… stop stealing my food.” He stepped hastily away from Tony, because dude, personal space. He needed to respect that. 

He caught himself in the doorway to his room. “Nothing she says,” he repeated. “And where is my hair gel?” 

* * *

 

After Tony’s parent’s house, Bucky wasn’t sure what to expect, but an off-campus frat-house bash was not one of those lists of possibilities. “You’re in a frat?” 

“It’s an academic frat,” Tony said, somewhat huffily. “For _engineers_. Which means we drink harder, better, and wake up less hung over than the schmucks down the road.” 

“Engineers do it until it hertz,” one of the other guys coming up the walkway said. “Hey, Tones!” 

“Honeybear!” Tony exclaimed, letting go of Bucky’s hand to wrap his arms around a good looking, tall, thin black guy with closely shaved hair. “And I was going to say, engineers do it without reading the manual.” 

“Ug, more bad puns,” Bucky protested. 

“Occupational hazard,” the other guy said. “I’m James Rhodes. Used to be Tony’s roommate, now I’m just the delegated best friend. And occasional designated driver.” 

“James Barnes,” Bucky said, offering Rhodes his hand. 

“The rental boyfriend,” Rhodes said. He gave Tony a quick, cutting glance and shook Bucky’s hand without trying to squeeze his fingers off, which was appreciated, but the expression on his face, not so much. Suspicion, with a tight undercurrent of anger and a flat-lipped smile that felt like a threat. 

Tony, either oblivious or doing a damn good job of it, let both of them go and squealed with delight to see a lovely strawberry blonde woman get out of a cab. “Pepper, darling,” he said, grinning, “come, rescue me, I’m surrounded by Jameses.” 

Pepper was tall and wore extremely spiky shoes that gave her another three inches over Tony. Her long hair was straight, probably pressed, and her clothes were obviously tailored to fit her perfectly. She gave Bucky a narrow, searching glance and then said, “This is the rental guy?” 

“Jesus, Tony,” Bucky objected. “Did you have to tell _everyone_?” 

Both Pepper and Rhodes stopped giving him the stink eye, looked at each other with something like recognition, then Rhodes said, “Okay, yeah, he’s one of us. Come on, then, rental boy, let’s have some fun.” Pepper took one arm, Rhodes took the other and they led him into the frat house, Tony skipping along behind them, grinning like an idiot. 

* * *

 

Tony’s friends had a weird idea of fun; a heady, half-dangerous, half-crazy blend of alcohol and science. There was not one, but five different people who’d brought experimental robots with them and were displaying and discussing them as if they were at a science symposium. Down on the basement level, someone had set up an honest-to-god robot fighting ring, and several people were engaged in battle bots and some extensive (and pricey) betting. 

The girl behind the bar was from a different school (culinary institute of molecular gastronomy) and had set up behind the bar with emulsifying chemicals, a few high end blenders, a dewar of liquid nitrogen and a rotary evaporator. She handed Bucky a Thai Basil Daiquiri, which almost had him issuing a marriage proposal on the spot. _Holy shit._ He watched closely as she made another one, which involved using liquid nitrogen to make frozen dust out of basil. “So very cool,” he said. 

“Quite a bit,” she said, then threw a cup filled with the nitrogen at him, which rained down as heavy, chilled mist that smelled and tasted faintly of lime. 

Tony found that amusing and proceeded to lick the lime dust off Bucky’s neck, which got Bucky squirming and hot and bothered. 

“So, hey, Ororo, how’s your handsome prince, I didn’t see him tonight,” Tony said, taking one of the alcoholic blackberry and pear puree jello cubes off a tray and stuffing the whole thing in his mouth. 

“He is still in Africa with his family,” the bartender said, pushing her hair out of her face with the back of one hand. “He will be back before the semester starts. This is only one evening, after all. Don’t worry, your best rival will still be here to compete with you in this year’s spring exhibition.” 

Tony grinned. “Her fiance, T’challa? Very smart man. Rich, too. His dad’s gonna give Stark Industries a run for its money if the trade agreements go through that allow him to ship to the US.  Not as talented as he thinks he is, though. I’ve got a little something up my sleeve that should knock his socks off.” 

“We shall see, Mr. Stark,” Ororo said. She nudged a plate of round cocktail marshmallows at them, each laid out on a strip of quince jellied paper. 

“God,” Bucky exclaimed, trying one of them. “When you get your own bar, you fucking call me. Holy shit, this is good.” 

Ororo smiled. “I look forward to hosting you in my establishment, then.” She removed a single, black business card from her pocket and handed it to him; there was only a single QR code on one side and the name _Storm_ on the front in zig-zag blue letters. 

Tony had to drag him away from the bar by brute force, which was probably a good thing, since the little super-concentrated alcoholic bits and bites were more potent than Bucky might have thought, and he was a little dizzy and lightheaded by the time Tony pulled him out onto the dance floor. 

“We’re always like this,” Tony said, in Bucky’s ear, “whenever you get us in a big group. We can’t resist showing off. Eventually something will catch on fire, or explode. Always happens. Science and alcohol is a combustible combination.” 

Well, that could be bad. The last time Bucky had a PTSD blackout was at a fourth of July thing. (in his spare time, he wondered what idiot decided fireworks was a good way to celebrate a holiday that was dedicated to American Freedoms, and therefore had an awful lot of war vet activity? Some people were obviously not thinking this shit through.) 

“Let’s um, move away from anything that’s likely to go bang?” Bucky suggested. “The last time I was around a balloon getting popped, I ended up under the dining room table.” 

“Well, I’m sure there’s something naughty going on upstairs,” Tony said, winking. “There usually is. Last year there was a strip poker game, and I’m pretty sure Bruce was naked by the end, which I’m hoping was just a drunken fugue state, because honestly, I’m not sure I needed to feel quite that outclassed.” Tony held up his hands about ten inches apart and Bucky snorted. 

The something naughty going on upstairs was a game of Never Have I Ever. As soon as they showed up, they were both encouraged to grab a drink tray and sit the fuck down. Each tray had ten shots lined up in plastic cups; Bucky could smell butterscotch (yum!) and bubblegum vodka (disgusting!) on his selection. 

Bucky found a place to squeeze in on the circle of people; Tony dropped down next to him, his knee pressed up against Bucky’s. “I can’t decide if I should drink these in order of most revolting to tolerable or the other way around.” 

“The more you drink, the less flavored vodka will taste like dentist’s office polish,” Tony suggested, leaning over and squeezing Bucky’s thigh in quick encouragement. Bucky grinned, feeling the press of Tony’s hand for long after he moved it. 

“Oh, look, Tony’s here,” one of the girls piped up. “Won’t take long for him to be out. Is there anything you haven’t done, Tones? Or any _one_?” 

“Only way to know might be to give away some of your secrets, Sue,” Tony snarked back. 

“Oooh, shots fired!” 

“Oh, no,” Tony said, gesturing to his tray. “I have not yet taken a shot.” 

“I think it’s my turn now, since Ben just drank himself out. Oh, and someone we don’t know, so you all know the rules, introduce yourself on your turn. I’m Misty Knight,” she said, smiling. “Never have I ever… been stood up for a date.” 

“Oh, yeah, Misty’s milkshake brings all the boys to the yard!” 

Four people drank, but not Tony. 

Next over was Tony’s friend, Pepper, who grinned, looked straight at Tony and said, “I’m Pepper, but I met Bucky earlier tonight. Never have I ever built a robot specifically to get out of doing household chores.” 

Tony grinned, raised a shot glass to Pepper and drank. Bucky glanced around the room, but Tony wasn’t the only one. Crazy scientist genius types, Bucky figured. 

The next guy, tall, good looking, with a deep, throaty voice, said, “Rumlow, nice to meet you. Never have I ever had sex in a moving vehicle.” 

Bucky turned one of his shot glasses, then asked, “Do blowjobs count as sex?" 

“God, I hope so,” someone piped up. 

Bucky drank, and he was the only one. That was tequila. Ah, tequila, he had many, many memories of too many tequila shots. 

“Story time, gorgeous,” Rumlow said. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth, winking at Bucky. Tony’s leg was suddenly pressed just a little harder against Bucky’s thigh. 

“What’s to tell?” Bucky asked. “I will say it’s really hard to shift gears in a Humvee while getting head. Lucky I didn’t run over my commanding officer, too.” 

Sue was next up. “Never have I ever thought about taking over the world.”

“Liar,” one of the men said on the other side of the circle.

“Don’t be stupid, Reed,” Sue said. “You’re welcome to take over the world. I’ll just boss _you_ around.” There was a round of general agreement and one tiny cheer from a skinny kid with glasses and messy hair. 

Reed drank. So did Tony. And Rumlow. And another guy across the way; who was getting a sternly disapproving look from his companion, who sat in a wheelchair. 

That brought it around to Bucky’s turn. He stared around at the group of -- okay, they weren’t _children_ , but they _were_ college students and they’d never been out in the real world. Not that Bucky had ever gone to college; straight into the Army right out of high school. “So, yeah, I’m the new guy. Name’s James, but my friends call me Bucky. And um, never have I ever gotten black-out drunk.” 

And there went pretty much everyone. Tony knocked his shot back with practiced ease. “Honestly, I should take two, as often as it happens to me.”   

“Hard to find something Stark hasn’t done,” someone else piped up. 

“Easy enough,” Tony said, glancing around. “Never have I ever cheated on a test.” 

Bucky didn’t bother to hide a smirk as his shot glasses stayed firmly down. He didn’t need help to fail his math classes, and Steve wouldn’t let him copy anyway. Rumlow, Misty, Reed, the guy in the wheelchair and his friend who wanted to take over the world. And the dark-haired girl next to him. For a bunch of brainiacs, there were a lot of cheaters and liars in the room, too. 

The skinny kid’s name was Peter, and his declaration had everyone drinking. “Never have I ever eaten raw cookie dough.” 

“Jesus, what’s wrong with you, kid?” Bucky asked. 

“What, you never heard of salmonella? Seriously, _all_ of you?” Peter looked revolted. 

“Nothing quite like eating raw cookie dough out of the tube to cure a broken heart,” the woman with black hair said, and there was a general round of consensus. 

“I’ve had my heart broken as much as anyone,” Peter said, “and I don’t feel the need to poison myself. Or eat an entire pint of ice cream in one sitting.” 

“You put a half-eaten pint back in the freezer? Heathen.” 

Reed glanced around the room, his eyes settled on Rumlow. “Never have I ever… exchanged sexual favors for a grade.” 

“Can’t see who’d want to sleep with you to mark you up a letter grade, Richards,” Rumlow said, putting his shot away. And everyone turned around to stare at him. “Oh, come on, really? Y’all must be terrible in bed.” 

“Or we don’t need to boost our grades that much,” Tony muttered. “Out with it, who’d you bang?” 

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Rumlow said. 

“Which has fuck-all to do with you, man.” 

Rumlow directed his glower around the circle. 

“C’mon, Reed,” Sue encouraged. “You obviously know… fill us in, which teacher’s got Rumlow all hot and bothered?” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Rumlow snarled. “It was Fury, okay? Happy now, Sue?”

“Holy shit,” Sue gasped. “Really? I mean, like wow, really?” 

“I find it hard to believe that Fury would have given him extra credit for that,” Tony muttered under his breath, “but he’s a braver man than I am, to nail that. Although, I expect that Fury nailed him, more like. I wonder if that’s why he was walking funny last semester.” 

“Since we’ve ventured into sex-capades here,” the man in the wheelchair said, “Never have I ever… had revenge sex.” And he looked pointedly at his companion. 

“That’s Charles,” Tony said, leaning over and breathing a coconut-rum flavored breath in Bucky’s direction. “He and Erik keep breaking up and getting back together. They’re together at the moment, but the running odds are 8 to 1 against them still being together tomorrow.” 

“Oh, that’s how it is, Charles?” Erik said, after taking his drink. Bucky glanced at Tony; if he’d gone through with his plans for Christmas, Bucky might have been edging the line of technically. Fortunately, Tony had been just a little bit smarter. “Never have I ever been shot at.” 

Bucky drank. “Remember what you said about drinking twice,” Bucky muttered. Ew, Christ, he forgot that was the bubblegum vodka. Ew, god, nasty. He had a hard time not spitting it back out. “Who brought this shit to a party? Have you no taste? No pity? Ug.” 

The long-haired girl with the fluffy scarf was up next. “Never have I ever… kissed on the first date.” 

Tony and Bucky exchanged a look, then clicked their plastic shot glasses together, and, as if they’d rehearsed it, drank each other’s shot. 

“Oh, so cute…” 

“Gag!” 

“Get a room!” 

“That’s Jessica, my best friend,” said the blonde next to her. “And I’m Trish, so I think that means you’ve met everyone. Um… Never have I ever… set off the fire alarm.” 

There were general groans and more than half the circle drank. So did Bucky; technically it was his own damn smoke alarm, but he rather vividly remembered the state of his oven after the accidentally turned it on to preheat with a pizza box still inside. 

“Oh, oh, it’s my turn again,” said Misty. “Never have I ever slept with Clint Barton!” 

“Really?” Tony said, after taking his shot. So did most of the room. “I thought everyone rode that bike.” 

“I don’t even know the guy,” Bucky said. 

“Oh, god, I’m eskimo brothers with Rumlow. _Jesus_. That’s just… wrong.” 

“Clint’s the campus slut,” Sue said. “We call him Hawkeye because he hits everything he sees.” 

Peter checked his watch. “We’ve got time for one more before we should go watch the ball drop.” 

Pepper looked down at her collection of shots, much diminished. “Never have I ever… fallen in love at first sight.” 

Bucky grinned, picked up his drink… and was shocked as Tony lifted his as well. For just a moment, over the glasses, their eyes met and then both of them looked away, shy. Oh, Christ, did that mean what… _shit shit shit_. Bucky drank and slammed his shot glass down. 

“Well, I know who Tony’s kissing at New Years,” Pepper said, staggering to her feet. “Looks like I need to pick a new target.” She swayed slightly and through some miracle of modern engineering (that she could walk at all in those shoes was all kinds of incredible, especially when she was that intoxicated) she managed to stagger just at the right time to miss Rumlow’s arms completely. “Rhodey! Hey, Jim…” 

“We all know who Tony’s kissing for New Year’s,” Charles said. 

“So,” Tony said, snuggling up under Bucky’s arm. “You gonna tell me who you fell in love with at first sight?” 

Somewhere behind them, the countdown started…. “59… 58… 57…” 

Bucky leaned in, meeting Tony’s eyes. What the hell, take a chance, right? Bucky believed in love at first sight. Maybe it was time to believe in something else. 

“34… 33… 32…” 

“Some punk I met,” Bucky said. 

“16… 15… 14…” 

“Yeah? Does he have a nice car?” Tony asked. 

“Yeah. He makes terrible puns, too,” Bucky said.

“9… 8… 7…” 

“What about you?” Bucky joined in the countdown chant, never taking his eyes off Tony’s face.

 “4… 3… 2… 1…” 

“I’m kissing him now,” Tony said, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck and drawing him in. Tony’s mouth tasted like he’d licked a bar, but Bucky didn’t care; he slid his tongue light and playful over Tony’s lower lip, tempting him into opening up, then devoured him when he did so. He forgot about the game, forgot about Tony’s friends, forgot about Rumlow, who seemed to be without a kissing partner, poor guy. Nothing mattered at all except Tony’s arms around him and the feel of Tony’s heart and the sweet, soft sigh he made as Bucky kissed him.

  
It was going to be a great year.


	3. Will You Steal My Valentine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's sister is absolutely the worst...  
> Tony's friend Jan is the second worst...
> 
> And Tony pulls out all the stops for a special date...

“What do you mean, _you don’t know_?” Tony asked, his voice filled with -- disappointment? Dismayed astonishment? Offense on Ana’s behalf -- Bucky wasn’t sure. He was only grateful that it was a phone conversation because he didn’t think he was, at this particular point in his life, prepared to face the expression Tony was probably wearing that went along with it. 

How had this happened? Bucky threw up his mental hands. He had no idea; he was dating a guy six years younger than himself and under normal circumstances, he should have been mildly amused by every twinge of emotional reaction that Tony had. And boy, did Tony bring the drama, sometimes. Bucky should have been the adult in this relationship, tolerant and patient, knowing that nothing was ever as overly important as Tony was making it out to be. 

Instead, Bucky found himself turned upside down and tossed around by Tony’s emotional weather. Worse, Bucky was enthralled by it; he was so damned happy whenever Tony was around, and when Tony was happy that he found himself putting ridiculous amounts of effort into Tony’s well-being. Sometimes, it was like having a new puppy. 

“Just what I said, kitten,” Bucky said, laying back on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. 

“She sent you a whole box,” Tony pointed out. 

“Yeah, and then she wrote ‘fragile, cookies’ on the side of the box,” Bucky said. 

“And?” 

“Have you _met_ my sister?” 

“You mean the red-headed whirlwind that’s nearly killed me four times already? Of course I’ve met Natasha,” Tony said. 

“Then why are you asking me if I liked the cookies? I didn’t get any of them.” Bucky puffed air hard enough to ruffle his hair. People were always so weird about that -- like, didn’t they know better? You didn’t leave sugar around ballerinas. Ever. 

Tash could _sometimes_ be counted on to leave one of thing, though, just enough so that she didn’t have to replace the box, or the 12-pack of Coke, or whatever. She was, Bucky would admit, most of the time the ideal roommate. She was gone at least seven months out of the year, she never left her dirty dishes out -- of course, Tash had grown up in the same house as he had, infested with roaches even at the best of times, and leaving food out was just not a thing you did -- and she paid all her bills on time. 

For that, Bucky was willing to put up with the fact that she ate everything that wasn’t nailed down, pried up things that were, and complain that she was still hungry. And, back when their parents were still alive, their mom had run Tash ragged on diet after diet, pinching her waist to see if Tash had “gained an inch” and constantly compared her to every other slender girl in the troupe. Tash had gone through two trips to the ER over it, once for prolonged bulimia, and another time for severe rash that had turned out to be a symptom from malnutrition. If what it took for Tash to be over that was to binge eat cookies once in a while, Bucky wasn’t going to say much to her. 

Not seriously, at any rate. He complained. Of course he did, he was her brother, it was his job to complain. But if he actually sat her down and had a conversation about her eating habits? Yeah, that could be real bad; she’d hear in between the lines, everything he wasn’t saying and didn’t mean about how fat she was and how no one would ever want her and… yeah, not happening. 

Not that he could really explain that to Tony; Tash’s eating disorder was between her, Bucky, and her troupe leader (better than the last leader, this one encouraged the ballerinas to _fucking eat all ready_ ). “Tash ate them all,” Bucky said, lame. “I’m guessing she thought they were good.” 

“Ana’s going to be disappointed,” Tony said. “She made those cookies _for you_.” 

“I’ll get Tash to autograph one of her publicity photos for Ana,” Bucky suggested, “and she’ll be so excited by that, she’ll completely forget that my sister is a horrible pest and eats all my food.” 

“This is a habit of hers, I’m guessing?” 

Bucky shrugged. “She burns a lot of calories, doing dance,” he said. “If I ate half as much as she does, I’d have to run a 5k daily. So, really, she probably spared me the effort of running, which I _hate_ doing in the winter.” 

Tony hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not going to tell Ana you didn’t get any of her cookies,” he said, finally. “Look, I have a few left, why don’t you come over and I’ll make sure you get one?” 

Bucky laughed. “I’m almost tempted to suggest you and my sister are conspiring against me.” 

“What, to get you into my bedroom?” 

“Something like that,” Bucky said. Not that he didn’t want to, _god…_ but Tash had been home for the last several weeks and Tony shared a room with another student (and one who seemed a bit homophobic, honestly) and privacy just wasn’t a thing they’d had. 

“If you’re not gonna come over for a bribe, I guess begging wouldn’t help any,” Tony said. 

 _Jesus Christ._ Bucky almost fell out of his own bed, the way Tony’s voice affected him, that soft, knowing lilt and how was that possible? This was… _god, you have it bad, soldier._  

Bucky rolled his head back; red numbers glittered at him. It was three-thirty, he had work at eight and he’d need to shower and change clothes, although he supposed he could bring a gym bag with him and use the dorm-showers over at campus. Fifteen minutes to get there, another twenty minutes to find a place to stow his bike, since he didn’t have a campus parking sticker, and he’d have to leave at seven, if he was going to get to work on time. 

“Order us some delivery,” Bucky said, “and I’ll be at your door in about an hour.” 

Bucky hung up the phone while Tony was still cackling with glee, fingercombed his hair, gave that up as a bad job and just scraped it back into a messy bun. He left Tash a twenty on the counter and a note, “Order a pizza. Gone to Tony’s. I know it was my turn to cook. LY, B” 

They always left each other notes; their parents had died in a carbon monoxide accident when Tash was still in high school. Bucky’d been in the Army, Tash was doing a limited tour over Easter vacation with the dance troupe, and neither of them had known anything about it until Tash came home a week later. 

Notes. And calls. Some of Bucky’s friends had given him shit about how careful he was to make sure his sister knew where he was at all times. Or how much he worried about it if she had gone somewhere and didn’t text him. Didn’t matter. Tash was all he had left. 

Bucky packed clothes and a toiletries bag into the pod on the back of his motorcycle. It was a little cold for a ride, but taking the bike meant he could stay longer instead of having to walk from campus to the nearest bus station. He pulled on all the leather, which would help keep him warm, although in the spring and summer he tended to play fast and loose with safety, something that would surely end with an epic scar someday. 

Helmet mashed over his already terrible hair, he climbed on and headed out to the college. 

* * *

 

What was it with women who stole his food? 

Bucky stared at the empty takeout box, then up at the girl in Tony’s room. She was adorable, pixie-haircut and wide, green eyes and clothes so fashionable they looked like they belonged on a runway. Exactly the sort of girl that Bucky had thought Tony _should_ date, not some ex-military guy with the fashion sense of an armadillo. 

“Janet, this is Bucky,” Tony said, apologetically. “Jan, Bucky.” 

“Oh, my god, you’re Bucky? Of course you are, I’m just so excited to meet you, Tony talks about you all the time and I’ve heard so many good things, and I know that I ate your general tso’s chicken and I’m so sorry, but I ran into the delivery guy on his way up the stairs and I was coming over to talk to Tony about some personal stuff and you know, we have class together and I needed to look over my notes with him anyway, and there’s this thing going on in a few weeks and I just had to ask him what he thought of my costume idea, and I noticed he’d ordered enough for two, and I just really didn’t think that he was going to have company over, sometimes he orders extra just so he doesn’t have to think about it the next day, and so I was already helping myself by the time we got to the door and I’m so so sorry --” 

“Holy shit, Tony, how does this woman even _breathe_?” 

“Kinda like a whale, maybe. I think she’s got a blowhole in the top of her head,” Tony said. 

“God, you’re terrible and I don’t know why I put up with you, Tony Stark, really, I just do not,” Jan said, smacking Tony over the head a few times and forcing Tony to shield his face before she knocked his ridiculous yellow sunglasses right off his head. 

“Because I’m the only one who puts up with you? Stop hitting me, you little wasp,” Tony said, ducking around behind Bucky. “You need to save me, now.” 

“Who’s gonna save _me_?” Bucky turned around in a circle, forcing Tony to run around him to keep away from Janet. Finally, he took a step to the side and Janet walked right into him, stumbled back a step, and rubbed her nose. 

“Ow.” 

“C’mere, you,” Bucky said, dragging Tony in for a kiss. Janet squealed, bounced on her toes and clapped her hands together, which almost had Bucky pulling back until Tony licked along his bottom lip and Bucky decided he did not care that she was watching. Between Bucky’s crazy working-nights schedule and the erratic class/lab schedule that Tony kept, he’d barely seen Tony in the last week, and mostly they’d just texted or chatted on the phone and god, Bucky had missed him. Seemed silly, when Bucky sat down and thought it over; he and Tony had known each other for all of five weeks, gone on a dozen dates (was it really a date when half the time Bucky just dropped onto campus and they hung out in the Quad A to watch television?) and talked on the phone almost every day. And yet, kissing Tony was the highlight of his day. 

Tony tasted like duck sauce and oolong and he smelled like expensive cologne. His hair was soft and his skin was warm under Bucky’s hands and his mouth was clever and willing.   

“Okay, enough,” Janet said, finally, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her foot impatiently. “Come up for air, already. I need Tony’s notes and to not feel pathetic.” 

Bucky could feel the reluctance in Tony’s mouth and tempted him back with a nudge at his lower back, before finally releasing him. 

“If you’d just ask Hank out, you wouldn’t have this problem,” Tony muttered. He waved a hand at the two desk chairs and the currently neat-as-a-pin other bunk (Tony’s half of the room was a disaster, the less said about it the better). “Grab some real estate, while I dig up this --” he disappeared practically headfirst into his backpack, pulling out any number of books, notebooks, a tablet, a laptop, with a muttered “not it.” 

Bucky dropped into one of the chairs, not wanting to mess up Tony’s roommate’s bed (Bucky had been introduced to the guy once, but Tony had exactly zero respect for the guy, and while he used cutesy nicknames for most of his friends, this particular guy found them offensive and often stormed off in a snit.) but Janet didn’t have any such hangups. She threw herself on the bed, kicking her heels up into the air behind her and snuggling up with the pillow, talking a mile-a-minute about the class she and Tony were in together, her crush on a guy named Pym, and why it was all sorts of inappropriate for her to ask him out (something something, he was a TA and probably going to be an adjunct professor next year and, something something.) while Tony dug out his notes and then ran them through his scanner for her, copying them. 

Janet apologized again for eating Bucky’s dinner when Tony tossed him both fortune cookies. Bucky opened one of them and devoured it in two bites, peeling the little piece of paper out of his mouth. _You learn a lot from your mistakes; today will be educational._ Bucky huffed, feeling cheated. Terrible fortune. He crumpled it up with the wrapper and threw both in the trash. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky said. “I’ve got a lunch for work, I’ll just take my break early.” 

“You work nights?” 

“He’s a bouncer in a strip club,” Tony said, grinning, as if this was a real achievement, when honestly, all it took was a lot of muscle and the ability not to hit on the dancers. (Bucky’d heard of other clubs where the bouncers and other male staff got “free-trade” from the girls, but that sort of idea just made Bucky feel sick.) 

“Really? Where do you work?” Janet actually looked interested, which was odd. Most of Bucky’s experiences with women who didn’t dance was a mix of sex-worker shame, or feminism 101 rampages about the nature of his work. 

“Red Room,” Bucky said. 

“Oh, awesome. Tony, we should totally go, I bet we could get a whole group together and --” 

Bucky hid his face behind his hand and groaned. _Excellent_ , that would be just _great_ , his boyfriend and a whole ton of probably underage college kids showing up at the ‘Room. Victoria would _kill_ him. And that after she yelled at him for a while, and dear sweet zombie Christ, Victoria Hand had a way with words that made a man want to stab himself in the eye rather than face her wrath. 

Tony handed off the print-outs to Janet, then dropped himself into Bucky’s lap, disdaining the other chair, and Bucky had to shift around suddenly, getting one arm around Tony’s lower back. “Some warning,” Bucky chided, then nuzzled at Tony’s neck, unable to resist. Tony squirmed around in Bucky’s lap, which was a little awkward as… _nnnngh_ , yeah, okay, so it had been _a long damn time_ since Bucky’d gotten laid and a little teasing was torture. 

Tony and Janet went off on some unstable particle theory that their professor had been discussing in lecture, with Janet adding in quips from Pym, who had apparently a long-standing debate with the guy. The theoretical physics part of the discussion was way over Bucky’s head and paygrade, but Pym sounded like a quick wit. 

“I agree with Tony,” Bucky said, interjecting himself into the middle of one such exchange, which earned him a brief look from the resident geniuses. 

“What part?” 

“The part where Janet ought to ask Hank out,” Bucky said. 

“Ha!” Tony exclaimed, almost falling out of Bucky’s lap in his enthusiasm, and the amount of twisting and twitching and clinging he did to remain perched there got Bucky a little more wound up then he’d really meant to be. “I _told_ you, I told _you_ , I told _my mother_ , I told --” 

“You told your mom? Oh, my god, Anthony Stark, why would you… why would you tell Maria that? You know she’s like best friends with my mother, and they go to coffee all the time --” 

Tony heaved an abused sigh. “Because my mom was trying to get me to ask you out,” he explained, waving a hand. 

“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Janet said, sticking her tongue out. “No. I mean, like I adore you, Tony, you know I do and you’re the sweetest thing and you actually have really good fashion sense but you and me? Dating? That would be a _disaster_. It would be like dating my brother. If I had a brother. He’s kinda like my brother, you know --” she directed this at Tony “-- like all the way down to have pictures of us together in diapers.” 

“Jan!” 

“You told _our mothers_.” 

Bucky snorted. “Yep, you two are siblings. You sound just like me an’ Tash.” 

“Oh, right, your cookie-thieving sister, I forgot about that,” Tony said, twisting around in Bucky’s lap again. “I owe you a cookie. Let me up, I’ll go --” 

Bucky winced and pulled Tony closer, shifting his hips and Tony’s eyes widened suddenly as he realized what, exactly, was poking him in the leg. “I’m good,” Bucky said. He leaned closer and breathed in Tony’s ear, the sniper’s voice from the military that didn’t carry _at all._ “Don’t you _dare_ get out of my lap right now.” The last thing he wanted was for Janet to notice the puptent he was making in the front of his trousers. 

* * *

 

Of course it had started raining. In Boston. In January. 

“Ug,” Tony said, walking him to the edge of the building, eying the sky. “You sure you want to ride your motorcycle in this weather?” 

“Choiceless,” Bucky said. “I gotta get to work, okay?” 

“Well, text me when you get there, babe,” Tony said. “This weather is. Well, I just want to know you’re safe.”

“‘Course, mom,” Bucky said, tapping Tony’s chin lightly. “Don’t fret, I’ll be fine. You don’t have to walk me out, no sense both of us getting wet.” 

“Okay,” Tony said. “Text me anyway.” He put his arms around Bucky’s neck and drew him down for a kiss, soft and warm and regretfully short. Tony was already shivering by the time he let go -- he’d come outside without a coat, like being young was somehow an immunity to the weather. 

“Will do,” Bucky said. He trudged out to his bike and had a completely miserable trip out to work. At least it was only twelve miles. By the time he got there, he was soaked through; riding in the rain was always like taking a 60 mile an hour shower, but this time it was also nearly freezing and his fingers and toes were so numbed that he ended up hitting the showers (again) before his shift started. Luckily -- or at least, practically -- everyone kept at least one change of uniform at the club. Guests drank, and anyplace where guests drank often resulted in employees getting puked on. He was still cold, and a little bit cross, so he group-texted Tash and Tony. _At work. Not dead._  

A few hours later, he swapped out with Drax and took his lunch break early. 

Only to find out that someone had snatched it out of the fridge and eaten all but the last two bites. Yeah, that was just how his day was going. 

Bucky but one hand to his grumbling stomach and then sent his sister a text. _If there’s not food for me when I get back, I will end you._  

 _Tash: I got chicken wings. There’s like four left._  

 _Bucky: I guess I’ll survive._  

* * *

 

 _Tony: What today?_  

Bucky rolled his eyes. Tony had gotten some sort of weird enjoyment out of Bucky’s reports about Tash’s brattiness. Maybe it was having no siblings of his own, or maybe it was because there was always a damn list. 

 _Bucky: Milk. There’s like half a swallow in the jug. Not even enuf for coffee._  

While waiting for Tony to respond to that, he scrolled backward, reading the myriad complaints and bitches and affectionate name-calling that he’d said about his sister over the last two weeks. There was… a lot. 

 _Bucky: Put her hand in the cereal box. Ate a handful. Then put her hand BACK in the box. Ick._  

 _Bucky: Left exactly one piece of shaved ham in the package._  

 _Bucky: One AA battery left in the package. What the hell uses 1 AA battery.  
Bucky: NEVERMIND I FIGURED IT OUT DONT SAY ANYTHING._  

 _Bucky: Asked to borrow $2. Gave her a 20. She left $18 in DIMES on the coffee table._  

 _Bucky: Seriously. There isnt room in the dishwasher for a fork and she cant be bothered to run it?? What am I supposed to eat with?_  

 _Bucky: Uff. that was nice. My turn to cook but work was shit last night and i m tired. She made spanikopita_  

The phone buzzed under his hand and Bucky scrolled through the messages again to find the new one. 

 _Tony: Are u working next weekend_  

 _Bucky: Thats valentines day?_  

 _Tony: Yes._  

 _Bucky: Not at all surprising, busiest day of the yr. That said, I wrkd last yr, so I have off this._  

 _Tony: Oh, thank god. Do you get seasick?_  

 _Bucky: Uh dunno?_  

 _Tony: 5 mins, ill call u_  

“Okay, so,” Tony said, when Bucky answered the phone a few minutes later, “I was wondering, maybe, if you’d like to go on a date. Like… an overnight date. I mean, I know we did that, when you stayed at my parents’, but like, for real, this time.” 

“An overnight date,” Bucky said, slowly, “on Valentine’s Day?” 

“Um, yeah?” Tony sounded nervous, a little breathy, like he was pacing around in his dorm room. 

“What did you have in mind?” 

“I… erm, you know Harbor Spirit?” Tony asked. Bucky did, actually; they ran advertisements on the radio all the time; kinda a bar/nightclub on a ship. Like Carnival Cruise, but smaller, and they didn’t leave the country, mostly just tooled around in the harbor area. A few times a year (New Year’s, Valentine’s, etc) they had overnight cruises. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “You… really?” 

“Well, yeah, if that’s something you want to do, I mean we can --” 

“I’d love to,” Bucky said. “That’s… um. Kinda serious business, though, kitten.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Bucky chewed his lip, he really would have rather done this in person, but what the hell. “I mean a date like that, it’s kinda expensive and… I guess what I want to know is where we’re going with this.”

“Oh, this is _that_ talk,” Tony said, and Bucky heard him throw himself onto the bed. “We’re gonna DTR already?”

Bucky snorted. Three letter acronyms… yay. Well, at least Tony didn’t actually say “lol.” He didn’t think he could date anyone who actually did that without at least a healthy dose of irony. “Define the relationship,” he said. “Might be time to do that, yes.” 

“Well, I’m not seeing anyone else,” Tony said, hastily, “not that you can’t, you know, if that’s not something you want, or, you know I don’t want to make assumptions, but --” 

Bucky smiled. “Oh, well, good, then,” he said. “I’m not seeing anyone else, either. I’d… we’ve been seeing each other about a month now, I’m interested to see if it goes anywhere. Dating, you know, with purpose.” 

“Purpose beyond just having a good time,” Tony said, all the way back to breathless again. “That’s, yeah, that’s great, Bucky, I’d… like that. Honest, I been sorta telling people you’re my boyfriend anyway.” 

Bucky hadn’t, not because he wouldn’t have, but because honestly, he didn’t have anyone to tell. Aside from his sister, and she’d already guessed that Bucky was more than halfway in love as it was. “That’s good,” Bucky said, again. “I mean, we… New Years, and… you know how I feel.” 

“But it’s nice to have it out in words, right, like official and everything,” Tony said. 

“Yeah, like that. Look, this seems wrong, over the phone. Can… can I take you out to dinner? I don’t have to be at work for another four hours, and I know a great diner --” he gave Tony the address. 

“Sure, I’ll… be there in thirty minutes, great,” Tony said. He hesitated, then -- “so, that’s a yes, on that cruise?” 

“Absolutely,” Bucky said, grinning. “See you soon, kitten.” 

“Yeah, I…” Tony said, hesitated again, then said, almost as if he was terrified, “soon.” 

* * *

 

“Oh, my god, Yasha, chill out,” Tash said, running her hand through Bucky’s hair and making a mess of it. “You look fantastic, it’s going to go fine.” 

“You think so?” Bucky asked, then, because he couldn’t possibly let Tash get away with that, he added, “because you know, if _you_ think so, I’m probably in trouble.” 

“Is it a moral imperative for you to be such an asshole?” 

Bucky considered that, as if it were an honest-to-god question. “Hmm, probably,” he said. 

“Look,” Tash said, “I know that you were real hurt with that Rogers thing; hell, back in high school, you were practically writing James Rogers in your notebooks. And I remember what a fucking wreck you were when he got married.” 

Bucky flinched. What Steve and he had… Bucky had massively misinterpreted a bout of sexual identity panic. Steve had come into the Red Room for the girls, or so he had said, but he had also flirted with Bucky. And Bucky had been stupid enough to think it was _real_. To let Steve sweet talk him into some behind-the-scenes action. They’d had sex five times; three times at the Red Room, once in the backseat of Steve’s car, and once on the back stairs to Bucky’s apartment. They’d never even gotten to a bed, and Bucky was in love enough to think that any of it meant _anything_. 

And then Steve had stopped answering Bucky’s texts. 

A few weeks later, Steve had stopped by the apartment, had woken Bucky up to tell him that Steve was engaged to be married to a woman named Sharon, and he was sorry if Bucky was hurt, but… Steve still wanted to be friends, if that would be okay, he… 

Bucky had shut the door in Steve’s face and had waited until he heard the man’s footsteps on the stairs before he’d collapsed and cried himself sick. 

He had never been able to decide later if the wedding invitation had been an olive branch or Steve rubbing it in Bucky’s face. 

Either way, Bucky hadn’t gone. In his better moments, Bucky honestly wished Steve all the best. As time passed, Bucky had more better moments. The wedding date had come and gone; Bucky had in fact, saved the date. Had saved it to get good and fucked up drunk. 

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Bucky said, closing the door on that thought. 

“But you’re worried,” Tash said. “I’ve seen you… twice now, you’ve almost picked a fight with Tony because if it ends badly, at least this time it’d be your fault. I’m just saying, brother, give it a chance, okay? Tony seems like a good guy.” 

“How do you even know?” 

Tash pinked, and that was interesting. 

“What?” 

She sighed. “You texted us both, a few weeks ago, so I have his number. We… started chatting a little.” 

“You are texting my boyfriend behind my back, what are you, twelve?” Bucky was mortified. “What have you said to him?”

“Nothing about you,” she said, almost cross. “Well, a few things about you, like your favorite color and stupid shit. But we just got to chatting. I like him. He’s kind. I give you permission to like him; god knows, you’ve liked stupider people.” 

Bucky appealed to the ceiling, “Is my own sister giving me a shovel talk? Is that what’s going on here?” 

Tash looked ready to protest that, but instead, she just poked him in the ribs a few times until he grabbed her hands, laughing and squirming away from her fingers. “Stop, _stop_ , I give up,” he squeaked, just as the door opened and Tony came up the stairs. 

“Do you need help?” 

“Yes!” Tash said, instantly, taking advantage of the distraction to poke Bucky again. 

“No!” Bucky responded instantly, thrashing his way out from under his sister, “No, absolutely, you do not need to help her.” He backed away, arms held out protectively. 

“Well, I actually meant you,” Tony said, laughing. “Hey, Nat, good to see you, I have a present for you.” 

The word _present_ worked wonders, Tash stopped stalking Bucky, brightened up, and beamed. “You’re a wonderful person,” she said, “and I do not even in the slightest bit rescind my permission for Yasha to date you.” 

“I don’t need your permission,” Bucky muttered. 

“Well, in case you have doubts,” Tony said, and presented one of those cheesy velvet boxes that were filled with assorted chocolates, “I brought this for you.” 

“For me? Really?” Tash snatched the box away and hugged it to her chest. “Thank you, that’s very sweet.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes; at least this way he wouldn’t have to be pissed when Tash ate all the chocolates, but weirdly, it kinda stung a little. 

“And before you get all sulky, gorgeous,” Tony said, bringing a second box out from behind his back, “this one’s for you. Will you be my Valentine?” 

Bucky shook his head, grinning. “Of course,” he said, and drew Tony in for a kiss. He couldn’t resist the siren’s call of chocolate for very long, however, and he sat down on the sofa, patting the cushion next to him for Tony to join him, and tore into the box. One of the best things about his favorite -- chocolate-covered cherries -- is that they were easy to find, even in a box of mixed candies. “Thank you. Want one?” He offered the tray to Tony, who selected one at random. 

“Can I have one?” Tash asked, leaning over the back of the sofa. 

“Really, Tash? You have _your own box_ ,” Bucky exclaimed, exasperated. “Eat your own chocolates!” 

“Yeah, but your box is open already,” she said, like this was a reasonable excuse. 

“One,” Bucky said, firmly. “Just one.” He was going to have to take the damn box with him if he had a prayer of there being any of them left by the time he got home. 

Tony just laughed and stole another one while Tash was picking them over carefully, trying to decide which one she wanted the most. “Come on, gorgeous,” he said, “we can’t miss cast-off.” 

Bucky sighed, grabbed another few chocolates and rapid-fired them into his mouth like they were pez from a dispenser. Mouth full, he glared at his sister, took the box back to his room and rather pointedly shut the door. He chewed and swallowed heroically. “Stay out of my room,” he said, wagging his finger at her. 

“Have a good time,” Tash said, blowing kisses at Tony. “Thank you for the present!” 

Bucky grabbed his overnight bag and followed Tony out to his car. “That was nice of you,” he said, cautiously, “although I admit, I’m a little concerned that her box and my box are the same sized box. What am I supposed to make of that?” 

“Hey, I’m not taking her on a cruise, am I?” Tony pointed out. 

“True, that,” he said. Tony leaned over and kissed him again, more thoroughly, as they both belted in. 

* * *

 

The stateroom was rather like a lavishly anointed hotel room -- the sort Bucky had only seen in pictures, really -- with a soft cream and rich burgundy decorations. There was a tiny sitting room and a bedroom beyond with an absolutely enormous bed. Both bedside tables held huge vases full of roses, and laying on the pillow... 

“Holy shit, Tony!” 

Bucky stared down at the largest damn box of chocolates he’d ever seen in his life. _Two-hundred and forty different chocolates_ , the box advertised.

“This way,” Tony said, “she gets to eat hers and yours back at your place, and you still get to have some.” 

“I’m gonna need to go to the gym for a month if I eat all that,” Bucky said, breathless. _Holy shit._ “Holy _shit_ , Tony. I don’t even know what to _say_.” 

“That you'll be mine?” Tony suggested. 

“Oh, my god,” Bucky said, knocking Tony over onto the bed and pressing against him. “Yes, absolutely, _yes_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: I just want to say that the thing with Tash eating all of Bucky's chocolates? That's a thing that happened to me. Personally. Altho it wasn't a sibling, it was my mom.
> 
> And my husband (we were just dating at the time) did the same thing Tony did, gave my mom a box of chocolates and me one. (and yes, my mom tried to eat out of my box once I'd opened it) and then at my apartment, he gave me an ENORMOUS box of chocolates.
> 
> He didn't ask me to marry him until like 2 months after this had happened, but I was already decided that when he asked, I was gonna say yes.


	4. Up for (Mardi) Grabs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Bucky can't find Tony, he starts to worry that his past is repeating itself, and that Tony's sneaking around with another man...
> 
> In the meanwhile, Tony's had a few drinks and he feels a little out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: drug-assisted sexual assault. 
> 
> There's a summary at the end for those who want to follow the story, but need to know what they're in for.

_ Bucky _

He was late, damn it. Bucky threw himself through the shower as fast as possible. Under more normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have bothered with the shower. He’d taken one before work and a little bit of bar-smell wasn’t too noticeable, especially since he was going to a college party, but tonight had been really bad.

He’d been working the early shift, which meant the crowd at the Red Room was mostly sad day drinkers and one party of Navy boys who’d just gotten leave. That made Angie’s day, since she wasn’t on the night shift yet and the day drinkers didn’t tip well, but drunk Navy guys tipped like crazy after months at sea with nothing to spend their cash on.

And everything would have been fine except one of the day drinkers was a Marine and he’d gotten pissed as hell at the Navy guys, especially when Angie had neglected Mr. Ten Dollars in three hours in favor of doing cheek grabs for the boys lining up the singles on their end of the stage.

Day drinker had started just by yelling at the Navy guys and Quill had gone over to try to smooth things over -- free drinks, or a lap dance would console the day drinker and a few splashes of booze was always better than a fight.

Except then Day Drinker had put his hands on Angie, which patrons just  _ did not do _ in a strip club without a clear invitation and she’d jerked backward. Angie had fallen into the lap of one of the Navy guys and knocked the chair to the floor. Navy boy had hit his head, and his friends jumped into the melee.

Which meant that Bucky and Quill and Maximoff had all had to get involved, since one of the Navy boys decked the Day Drinker. Bucky was sore, tired, covered in stale beer and floor glitter. The day drinker had been a Marine once, even if he had a beer gut these days. He’d gotten in a few good -- if badly aimed -- punches before Quill had gotten hold of his index finger and bent it nearly flush with the back of the man’s hand. That had put the Day Drinker right on the floor in agony. It was Quill’s signature move, and Bucky would have been more grateful if Quill’d gotten to it just a little bit faster, because  _ fuck _ , his ribs hurt. The guy might have been packing an extra seventy pounds or so, but he knew how to roll his weight behind his fist, because that last left cross had nearly wiped Bucky out.

And his phone had gotten smashed in the tussle. The Navy guys, terrified that their CO would find out they were brawling on their off-time, had slipped him a few hundred under the table to get it replaced and that was great. Bucky had, in turn, allowed them to leave before the cops arrived. As far as Bucky was concerned, the person to blame was Day Drinker, and as he was in no shape to go anywhere, the cops could arrest him and the Navy boys could get clear. 

“We don’t know who they were,” Victoria Hand, the owner, had told the cops, “they left. We check ages at the door, but it’s not good customer policy to write down people’s names who come to a strip bar.” She’d also given Bucky an extreme case of side eye and stuck him with the cops for the rest of the incident report in punishment. By the time he finished, he was over two hours late getting off work. On a normal night, Bucky would have taken a few of the illegal pharmaceuticals that Vic kept on stock for employees (both the bouncers and the dancers) and a nip of vodka, gone home and collapsed.

But it was Fat Tuesday and Tony’s little friend Jan had taken the trouble to invite Bucky to her annual costume party. Tony had been very excited about it, and gotten all weird and secretive about his costume and just generally been adorable enough that Bucky had said he’d go, and he’d even ordered a costume for it. He wouldn’t have minded telling Tony what it was, but Tony had stuck his fingers in his ears and made  _ la la la _ noises.

Bucky washed glitter out of his hair and hissed as he soaped up his skin; fuck fuck  _ fuck  _ his ribs hurt. He was more hopeful than sure they weren’t broken, but if it didn’t feel better tomorrow, he’d take advantage of his rather good health coverage and go get an x-ray.

Slowly, Bucky toweled himself off, patting gingerly at his ribs, which were already turning lovely shades of purple and green. He checked the time. It was almost ten, and if he’d had his phone, he might have bowed out, but he couldn’t even tell Tony he was going to be late. Bucky didn’t want Tony to think he got ditched. 

He wished to God that Tash was home, because first off, he knew she was texting with Tony these days, so he could have borrowed her phone, and secondly, bending over to lace his knee-high costume boots up was agony. The costume itself was pretty comfortable, tight-fitting (really tight, holy shit, did his junk really look that big most of the time?) gray trousers and a floofy white shirt with a darker gray vest and then he pulled his wet hair back into a tight queue. On the plus side, wearing a wig at the party meant he had a lovely excuse for having helmet hair. (He’d been planning to use Uber, really, but without a phone… )

He grabbed the stylized mask and wig, then veered back into the bathroom to snatch a few of the vicodin that he had left over from the last time he’d taken an elbow to the face in a bar brawl and cracked his eye socket.  _ No drinking _ , he told himself firmly as he pocketed the pills and headed out. 

* * *

The party was in full swing when Bucky showed up, music blaring and the hot, wet feel of too many bodies packed into a small space smacked him in the face when he walked in. Tony’s friend Jan went all out; the whole place was decorated with masks on the walls and purple and gold and green banners. There was a sticker photo booth (and someone dressed in a wedding gown that could have passed as Sarah to Bucky’s Jareth had dragged him off for a quick photo shoot and then kissed him sloppily on the cheek, leaving a smear of red lipstick behind before squealing in his ear and running off to her friends) and dozens of cheap strobe-lights and pocket spots flicking color in all directions.

Not knowing too many people, and all of them being in costume made it difficult to track down Tony; especially since Bucky had no idea what he was wearing. He finally spotted Charles and Erik -- and that was cheating, because Charles was the only person in a wheelchair. He’d done his chair up like that beepy robot from Star Wars and Erik was next to him in a half-hearted gold outfit to match. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, coming up on the far side from Erik, keeping his hand tight over his ribs because he’d been bumped twice already, “you haven’t seen Tony tonight, have you?”

“Oh, look,” Erik observed, dryly, “it’s the cradle-robber. Haven’t you gotten tired of hanging out on campus, soldier?” That was a double-barb and Bucky blinked hard. What the hell had he done to Erik that the man was so snide? No, Bucky hadn’t pursued a secondary education; he’d meant to be career military, but… he sighed. Not the time and he didn’t have the energy to fight about it at the moment.

“So, that’d be a no?”

Charles rolled his eyes. “I believe I saw him earlier, dancing with Misty. I don’t remember his costume; she’s wearing a ‘sexy cop’ outfit, complete with handcuffs.” 

“She’d like to put handcuffs on Stark,” Erik said, eyebrows moving suggestively. “Kinda have to, to nail that boy down.”

“Erik,” Charles said, sighing. “Gossip-monger isn’t a good look on you.”

“How is it gossip when it’s true?” Erik inquired. “I mean, I ask you, aside from you --” and he glanced at Bucky with utter loathing. Whatever, man. “-- Stark hasn’t had anyone back to his room more than once, and there’ve been --”

Bucky walked away. If there was one thing he’d learned in relationships (not that he’d had that many, but still) it was that knowing someone else’s number was just a no-win situation. It was de-humanizing, for one, reducing someone to nothing more than their number of sexual partners. And it put power issues and relationship balance in jeopardy. Not to mention, he didn’t want to hear it from anyone other than Tony, and only if Tony wanted to tell him.

Misty wasn’t hard to find; the sexy cop outfit showed off her long, dark legs all the way up to her ass, and she was joking and flirting with just about everyone, play-threatening to arrest people for underage drinking and partying without a license. She actually hooked the handcuff around Bucky’s wrist and was pretty floored when he used the safety pin that held his vest in place to pick the lock in about twenty seconds. 

“How did you do that?” She squinted at him.

_ You learn a lot as a POW _ , Bucky thought and didn’t say. “Spent a lot of time in kink clubs,” he said, with a wink. “Have you seen Tony recently?”

She checked her phone, twirling the handcuffs absently around one dextrous finger. “Um, it’s quarter-til and I saw him… here,” and she showed him a selfie of her and a man dressed as Captain America. “We took this at… just after nine-thirty, so it’s been a while.”

Bucky nodded. At least he knew what Tony was wearing now. He bounced up on his toes, but the crazy lighting and the press of bodies made it hard to spot even that bright blue costume. Bucky wove through the crowd, looking for blue spandex tights and listening for that signature laugh that usually cut across the noise. 

“Hey, Bucky!” Pepper grabbed his arm, dragged him into a bit of a three-way dance with Tony’s friend Rhodes. Bucky was impressed; Rhodes had good rhythm and they moved in time with the music, and did a wicked stand-up grind with Pepper in the middle, her tall, slender body matching with sinuous grace. 

“Hey Pepper,” Bucky said. “You seen Tony? I didn’t get here ‘til late and I --”

“He was doin’ shots with Reed and Sue earlier,” Pepper said. “He’s dressed up as the most ridiculous superhero.”

Bucky smirked. He couldn’t wait to get a look at Tony’s ass in a pair of spandex pants. “I’ve heard that.”

The music shifted and Bucky moved off, dodging a friendly smack on his shoulder that Rhodes aimed in his direction. The bartender -- the same white-haired, gorgeous Ororo -- bounced on her toes when she saw him. “Oh, Goblin King, Goblin King, take me away from this horrible place!”

“You seem pretty happy here, actually,” Bucky remarked. “Got anything non-alcoholic back there?”

Ororo snorted. “Of course,” she said. She pulled out a pitcher of juice, sliced a pear with a mandolin cutter, did something fancy with one of her gelatin scoops and added some sparkling water. “Not as much fun as my usual, but I couldn’t get the nitrogen this time -- school’s in session, so we’re actually using it for class and stuff.”

Bucky took a sip. “You are a genius,” he said. He pulled out the vicodin from his pocket and took one, chasing it with a swallow of Ororo’s pear punch. “You seen my boyfriend?”

“Was he not dancing with you earlier?” a deeper voice said, and Bucky turned around to be stared down by a tall, rippling muscled black man wearing a cat costume. 

“My fiancee, T’challa,” Ororo said, waving a hand casually. “And yeah, I thought the pirate was you, but…”

“Bucky!” Jan approached the bar by dint of having sharp, pointy elbows and no hesitation whatsoever in using them (lord, that woman was tiny). “Where’s Tony?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out since I got here!”

“No, I’m really serious,” Jan said. “He’s been drinking, and he went off with some guy, and… look, I’m worried about him. Tony doesn’t have the best judgement when he’s been drinking.”

Bucky tried hard, but he was pretty sure the sound of him crushing his empty cup in his hand was loud enough to be noticed. “Pretty sure if he went off with some other guy, he doesn’t want me lookin’ for him anymore.” God  _ damn  _ it, he didn’t think he could do this again. He wanted to trust Tony, he really did. But some things were hard to unlearn, and Bucky didn’t trust  _ himself _ . Not to be someone that Tony would want to keep. He wasn’t special or --

_ Fuck _ .

Well, at least he would know. “Where do people go, when they hook up?”

“There’s a couple of empty class rooms and stuff back this way,” Jan said, using her thumb to gesture.

Assuming Tony wouldn’t take another guy back to his dorm room; although that hadn’t worked out very well for Bucky and Tony, since the roommate (what the hell was his name again? Justin?) was pretty put out even if they were just sitting on the bed together. So, no, Tony probably wouldn’t take a quick fuck back to his dorm.

Jan was at his elbow, opening doors, peering in. She apologized more than once to couples she interrupted. Jesus Christ, college was supposed to be about learning, wasn’t it? Didn’t anyone keep it in their pants?  _ No, Barnes, stop being naive. _

And then he heard Tony’s voice, low and straining, just a little bit slurred. Bucky froze, hand hesitating right over the doorknob. He  _ could not _ do this. Bad enough that he knew Steve had cheated on him, he’d never had to actually witness it.

His hand fell away from the knob. He should walk away, he should fucking walk away now. Maybe he could pretend hard enough he’d never heard Tony’s voice rise and fall with those soft, eager groans.

* * *

Tony Stark was notorious for never arriving anywhere on time. Like there was some fundamental ability that most of the world had and that he lacked. Classes, work, appointments, dates. He was always late. He really  _ wasn’t _ , honestly, except that the few occasions that he’d been late, there were such big productions made out of it that the cliche stuck to him like clingwrap. And to be frank, he was frequently late to shit that wasn’t important, and maybe he judged some things to be less important than other people saw them, but…

This time, he was early. Bucky got off-shift at eight, and there was no reason to expect him immediately after work, but Tony wanted to be sure, so he arrived at ten til.

Which was early enough that Jan had put him to work with last minute decorations and party set up. Jan was… well, she was Jan and fashion and hostessing were second nature to her. Anyone who was a friend of Tony’s mom, Maria, had some sort of finishing school polish on them, and Jan had been one of those few who were both brilliant and talented, fashionable and focused. He helped her hang buntings and spread tablecloths and put food trays in place, and made sure the bar was stocked (he might have had a few shots over there, while he was at it, because someone had to make sure the booze was high quality, right? Right.)

People started arriving not long after, the booze was flowing, the music was loud. Misty dragged Tony out on the floor and danced with him because she complained that most white boys didn’t know how to dance and that Tony was the exception to the rule. There were more drinks. Sue and Reed had challenged him to a game of beer pong, except they were doing shots instead of beer. Which was fine, except Reed was also really, really good at bouncing, so Tony was a lot more intoxicated than he’d expected to be by the time a tall, well-built man came up behind him.

Dressed in a fancy pirate costume, he’d slid his hands over Tony’s eyes and whispered a harsh, “Guess who?” into Tony’s ear. Tony shivered and turned, looking up. The man was wearing full pirate gear, all the way up to black gloves with full lace cuffs. The red velvet jacket pulled tight over a muscular chest, the pants were exceptionally tight and showed off well-built thighs.

“Bucky?”

“Sure, sure,” he said, handing Tony a red Solo cup. God, the music was loud; Tony was more reading lips than hearing that voice, rough and soft, like velvet wrapped around steel. “Been a bitch of a day. Bottoms up!” And he tilted his own cup up. Tony watched as his throat worked, swallowing the contents of the cup in slow, sensual motions. 

Tony tipped his cup up and swallowed. Rum and coke, ew. But whatever. Tony put the cup aside and grinned up at his date.

“You look so good I want to eat you up,” the pirate said, putting his mouth close to Tony’s ear. The feel of his breath gave Tony shivers. 

“Dance, first?” Tony indicated the crowded floor with dozens of couples swayed and rocked and swapped bodily fluids. A few dance circles had spread out, with various show-offs making their moves. Tony’s hand was grabbed and he was dragged out on the floor where the pirate turned him around, shoved one leg between Tony’s thighs and did a quick and dirty grind. Tony smirked, threw a look over his shoulder, leaned left, while his partner leaned right so they could look at each other. 

It didn’t take long before they were up on each other. Tony was quite certain that was an erection being pressed into his left thigh and didn’t mind at all. It was, in fact, super hot. 

Really hot, actually, Tony decided, after a while, sweat trickling down the back of his costume. The music slowed down, distorted, and the lights flashed at him, sourceless and bright. He was dizzy. Tony staggered forward a step and the pirate caught him around the waist before he fell.

“You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Tony said, shaking his head. “Yeah, I just… no, no, I don’t… what?”

“Need to sit for a while?”

Tony nodded. “Mighta drank too… yeah, much.”

They found a cluster of chairs and Tony found himself in the pirate’s lap, yeah that was definitely some activity going on in those pirate pants, and Tony would have been more interested, except that really, it felt like the floor and the ceiling were sliding out of position. Tony clung tight to those broad shoulders, worried that he might float away.

Tony was walking, he wasn’t sure how that had happened, walking, and there was a warm arm around his back, holding him up and… that wasn’t right, was it, because it was a left arm, and there was something, something he should remember about walking on the left side, he didn’t do that, but… there was a... 

Soft place under his legs. A bed, or a sofa, or maybe just...

Warm body, pressing down on him, kissing, kisses were nice, he liked that. He opened his mouth, let a hot, forceful tongue into his mouth…. Tony groaned into it, wanting, needing. Except it felt… weird. The mouth wasn’t as soft as he remembered, and he was pretty sure that the hair he had his hands twined in was supposed to be longer. Tony tried to pull back and the person kissing him chased him down, grabbed hold of his jaw and kept him still.

The room was spinning, gently, but persistent. “Stop,” he muttered, pushing at the person who was on him. He was so dizzy. Even with his eyes closed, Tony could feel the world going round and round like a record baby…

“You know you want it,” a voice was saying, and there was a dark shadow over him. Dark brown eyes, the color of mahogany -- wait, wait, this was wrong, this was all wrong… Bucky’s eyes were blue, like ice on water.

“No, you. No, I don’t think I do,” Tony managed a whole sentence, trying to shift under that weight, but he couldn’t seem to get leverage.

“Shut up, you little slut,” the man said, and who the hell was it? Tony struggled harder, trying to worm his way out, but he was so dizzy and… god, tired, and… “You were all up on me on the dance floor, so it’s time to pay out.”

“Get off me!” Tony pushed as hard as he could, which wasn’t hard enough, and the man’s mouth came down on his again for a brutal kiss. Tony bit. It was all he could think to do.

“You little bitch.” For just an instant, the weight moved, and Tony was almost crying with relief, except that it was back before he could get up, and someone shoved a pillow over his face, forcing him back onto the cushions and…

He couldn’t breathe.

He felt the man’s hand on his groin, and it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all because he was going to smother to death. 

He couldn’t breathe.

Tony heaved, kicking, struggling, but --

He turned his head, sucked in a breath, and the weight shifted again. There was nothing. He reached out, fingers searching. He found a cord and yanked. Distantly, something smashed to the ground. He shoved again when the body on him jerked in surprise.   

_ I said no. _

Tony’s hand fell to the side. He was so tired. So dizzy. His chest burned, but it didn’t matter anymore…

And then the weight was gone, jerked off him. “Get the fuck off him, you son of a bitch!”

“Tony, oh, my god! Oh, my god, Tony.” Jan was there, suddenly. Where had she come from? The pillow was gone and Tony was heaving for air. It was cold, aching in his lungs, freezing everything.

Sounds, there were sounds, coming from a far distance, a sickening thud. Tony turned his head; in the dim light, two men were struggling. One pulled an arm back, punched, and that sound was repeated, followed by a low, heavy grunt.

The second man staggered back a step, lurched, then kicked, taking the first man in the ribs. Someone screamed in pain.

“What… what’s… “

“Oh, Tony, baby, are you hurt?” Jan was crying and that was wrong. Jan never cried. 

“Who do you think you are?” The pirate yelled, stomping down on his opponent, and the man on the floor grabbed at a booted ankle, twisted, and brought his left arm down, hard, across the pirate’s chest.

“I think I’m his fucking boyfriend, that’s what I think, you son of a bitch,” Bucky said. He sat up, jerked his arm up and brought shiny silver fingers down to grip -- oh, jesus, fuck, it was Brock Rumlow? -- Rumlow’s throat.

Tony reached out, weakly, and pushed at Jan. “Move,” he said, soft as he could. “Please, Jan, move.” And he rolled onto his side and threw up.

“No, wait, Bucky, don’t,” Jan was saying, and Tony wanted to look, wanted to figure out what the fuck was going on, but he couldn’t stop the dry heaves. “Don’t kill him, that won’t help Tony. Come on, let him go, let him -- I could use a hand in here --” she yelled, and suddenly the lights were flipped on.

Tony convulsed.Was he half undressed? He felt exposed. On display. He cringed and rolled over, covering his face with his arms.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jan shouted. “You’re all goddamn useless! Misty, call the cops. Get an ambulance, too. Rhodes, yes, stand here and make sure Rumlow doesn’t go anywhere. Yes, he assaulted Tony, but no, don’t punch him, okay, there’s been enough of that. God, will someone get me a blanket and a glass of water for Tony? Yes, thank you Sue, you’re a lifesaver.”

And then Bucky was in Tony’s line of sight. “Tony? Tony, honey, are you --” He reached out, then stopped. “Can I… is it okay if I touch you?”

Tony wasn’t sure he wanted to be touched; part of him felt both disgusting and dirty at the same time. Also, he just puked, which he hated. Revolting, roiling hot, partially digested hors d'oeuvres and liquor as it left his stomach, which was sore and cramping. His mouth tasted utterly foul. On top of that was the sinking feeling that Bucky shouldn’t  _ want  _ to touch him, that the man Tony was dirty dancing with earlier, was kissing with an enormous hard-on and quite a lot of enthusiasm, wasn’t who he thought it was and there was guilt and self-loathing and a certain amount of inevitable shame. 

People were staring, clustering in the hall. The lights were too bright, the sounds too loud. Everyone was looking; way too many eyes on him in ways that Tony never knew people could look. Didn’t want to know that about his friends. He wanted nothing more than to cover his head with a blanket that Jan scrounged from somewhere and --

“Tony?” Bucky’s voice broke in the middle of the word, anguished. Tony made an effort to focus his eyes, but nothing seemed to be working at all.

“Please,” Tony didn’t even know what he was asking for. But Bucky’s arms were around him, and Tony was being cradled, very gently, against a broad chest. Bucky pulled the blanket up around him, and Tony hid his face in the white, billowy cloth of Bucky’s costume shirt and tried to ignore the cluster of people at the door. It was going to be all over campus by tomorrow morning that Tony goddamn Stark had finally gotten what was coming to him.

_ Iron. Stark men are iron. _

Tony managed a muffled “sorry,” spoken as softly as he could manage, against Bucky’s chest.

Bucky made a choking sound and Tony found his chin being lifted by a pair of gentle fingers. “No,” Bucky said, and the expression on his face was almost too violent to be comforting, and yet, somehow it still was. “No, you… this is not something for you to be sorry about, Tony. This is not your fault, you didn’t ask for this. Oh, God, Tony. I’m just glad you’re --” 

And then the cops were there, and EMTs and Tony was wrapped up tighter in the blanket and someone was taking him away, and Bucky was standing there, face pale and furious, watching Tony leave.

* * *

The EMTs wouldn’t let him on the ambulance, and Bucky was shaking too much from adrenaline and fear and rage to be anything other than a street-smear waiting to happen if he climbed on his bike.

“Well, come on,” Jan said, tugging at his sleeve.

“What?”

“I have a car,” she explained, slowly, like she’d said it already before. “We can meet them there.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, still watching the ambulance’s lights disappearing into the night. He finally managed to give her his attention once he couldn’t see even the faintest track of red lights or hear the whine of sirens. Jan was tapping on her phone, then held it up to her ear, giving Bucky a ‘one minute’ finger.

“Yeah, hey, Mom,” she said. “Yes, I know, it’s very late, but listen to me -- yes, it is, actually. No, a real emergency, thanks. I’m feeling the love here. Look, I don’t have her number, but could you please call Mrs. Stark and let her know that Tony’s in the hospital, please? Yes. No, it’s not good, not at all. He’s been assaulted. Yes. I know. I’m going, I’m headed there now. Yeah. that’s good, I’ll keep you posted. I will, Mom. No, no, I’m not hurt. No, Mom, not that kind of assaulted, the other kind. Yeah.” Jan wiped absently at her face, then sniffled. “No, I’m not okay, but I need to go now, okay? Tony --”

“Can I borrow your phone?” Bucky asked, as Jan went to slip it back into her purse. “Mine’s busted and I need to call my sister.”

Jan handed over the phone, wordless, and Bucky dialed it while they walked out to her car. He wanted to run, but that wouldn’t do any good, since he had no idea what Jan’s car looked like and he’d just end up waiting for her anyway. Tash answered the phone, all grouchy and sleep-strained. Of course she did, Bucky wasn’t using a number she knew, and before she could hang up, Bucky started talking in rapid Russian. They didn’t use the language much anymore, after their parents had died, unless they were annoying the shit out of the other women in Tash’s dance troop. 

“<I’m headed to the hospital, sunshine,>” Bucky said. “<Tony’s been hurt and my phone is broken, I’m calling from a friend’s phone.”>

“<Do you need me?>”

Bucky quivered, jaw aching from clenching his teeth. His ribs hurt even worse; that fucking rapist, Rumlow, had kicked him in the chest. And Tony… “<Yeah.>” He needed his sister. He heard the rattle of keys in the background. “<Are you dressed?”> Because sometimes Tash forgot that clothing was mandatory. 

“<Shit,>” she said. “<No. What hospital?>” Bucky closed his eyes for just a second, had to stop before he fell over. Had he ever been grateful enough for his sister, ever in his life? 

“<Love you, kiddo,>” he said, finally, giving her the direction.

The hospital waiting room was depressing; no matter how much they tried to make the places cheerful and inviting, they weren’t. The chairs were moderately not terrible and there were multiple televisions showing various inoffensive channels: home remodeling reality shows, cooking shows, and the weather channel, which were about as unpolitical as television could get. Bucky would rather have watched paint dry, but as it was, his eyes kept being drawn back to the movement on the screen.

Bucky’s not Tony’s family. As an adult, Tony could have anyone he wanted back in the emergency room with him, so long as he asked for them. Tony hadn’t asked for anyone. Bucky reminded the nurse, several times, to tell Tony they were there, him and Jan, but the nurse just gave him an ersatz sympathy smile and said “I’ll make sure he knows.”

Tash arrived in a cloud of red-headed pissed off ballerina-diva mood. She took one look at her brother, sitting carefully, hand pressed against his ribs. Tash raised a threatening fist.

“Have you seen a doctor, yet, Yasha?” 

“No,” Bucky said. He didn’t lie to Tash, that was a stupid damn thing to do. “Natasha, this is Tony’s friend, Janet Van Dyne. Jan, this is my sister, Tash.”

“What the hell happened that you have cracked ribs, Yasha?” Tash shook her fist at him. “And don’t make me punch you to prove a point, asshole.”

“Look, Tash,” Bucky said, raising his hands in surrender, “I’m tired. I’ve been in two fights tonight, and my boyfriend is in the goddamn ER and I can’t go see him. Don’t make me fight any more, okay?”

“And you have cracked ribs,” Tash pointed out, staring at him as if she could will him to do what she wanted by force of personality alone. Not like it hadn’t worked before. “And you’re in a hospital anyway. So. Check. The fuck. In.”

“You’re hurt?” Jan finally managed. “Holy shit, Rumlow hurt you?”

Bucky scowled. “He hurt Tony worse,” he said, as if that somehow made a difference. Tash’s eyes narrowed further, but it wasn’t enough to get Bucky out of putting his name on the list. At four in the morning, the emergency room is oddly quiet. Two other groups were clustered there, one a family whose baby ate a bunch of stuff out of mom’s purse, including a car key and a tube of lipstick. Another was by himself, and judging by the way he’d curled up around the pain-point in his side and panted quietly from time to time, either had a very bad UTI or kidney stones. 

Finally, the triage nurse got Bucky back, weighed and measured and found wanting, as they always did in hospitals. Blood pressure, heart rate, temperature. For Tash it was always “when is the date of your last period.” For Bucky, it’s “have you been having unprotected sex?” Like forgetting to use a condom would give him broken ribs. Or in Tash’s case, being pregnant would have anything to do with a sprained ankle. Whatever. Doctors were nosy and they sucked.

Why was it, Bucky wondered, that x-ray techs were so fucking lazy. He was the one with broken ribs and they made him stretch this way and that way and reach around and Bucky knew for a fucking fact that those machines moved around and that all the pictures they could ever need could be taken with Bucky standing up straight and not putting any additional strain and pain on his ribs. “At least if I puncture a lung doing these fuckin’ calisthenics,” Bucky muttered, “I’m in th’ right fuckin’ place for it.” 

The tech laughed and patted Bucky on the shoulder. Which, if Bucky was any less tired than he already was, he’d have seriously considered breaking the guy’s wrist for it. Physician, heal thy fucking self.

When the film was ready, Bucky didn’t want to see it. He hated looking at the shots of his chest with all the metal underpinnings that supported his arm all solid white in the middle of the x-ray. Made him feel more like a freak than he normally did. In the last few years, he’d been able to ignore it, more, and his resting bitch face was good enough that complete strangers didn’t usually stop him to ask dumb-ass questions. “Did it hurt?” “No, fucknut, it tickled.”

The verdict was as simple as it was predictable. He had three cracked ribs; compression bandages for a week, avoid smoking, smoke-filled areas, do you need allergy medication, because sneezing was never a good plan with cracked ribs, and pain medication. Follow up with your regular doctor (Bucky probably had one, he thought that he’d had to pick a primary care physician when he signed up for his medical insurance and he’d just drawn his finger down the list until he found someone who was accepting new patients, not that he’d been to a doctor’s appointment outside of various physical injuries.) in ten days, and if you experience unusual pain or coughing, come back in.

By the time he was discharged, it was past dawn and he staggered to a halt in the waiting room, because Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis were sitting there, with Jan on one side, holding Ana’s hand and Tash curled up in a two-seater plastic monstrosity and most of the way asleep with Mr. Jarvis’s enormous coat over her shoulders.

“Mr. Barnes,” Ana said. She stood up, holding her hands out to Bucky. “I hear you heroically saved our Anthony.”

Bucky flushed, dull and hot. Some hero; Tony didn’t even want to see him. Not that Bucky could blame him, he’d been through hell and back. Bucky swallowed hard. “Wish I’d been there sooner,” he said, and that was the fuckin’ truth like nothing else was. He’d never seen anything so heartbreaking as Tony curled up on himself, like trying to hide from the world, his costume torn open and bruises against his throat. And then Tony had said sorry to him, like Tony had done anything wrong at all, when it was Bucky and his damn insecurity that had let things go as far as they did. 

“Nonsense,” Mr. Jarvis said, briskly. “The young master Stark has asked to see you. I was waiting, to make certain that the message was passed along. Mrs. Stark sent me to pick up her son and bring him home. I hope you will aid me in convincing young sir that this…” Mr. Jarvis folded his hands and shunted his gaze to the floor. “I don’t feel that going home would be particularly restful for Anthony. His well-being is my highest concern.”

For just an instant, Bucky was merely puzzled, and then he backtracked over the conversation and was left with an open mouth. “What are you --”

“Mr. Stark has been very displeased with the young sir’s poor life choices, as he says,” Ana explained while Jarvis pretended to develop deafness. “We’re afraid that Mr. Stark will use this unfortunate event to point out that Anthony’s --”

Bucky swished his tongue around in his mouth a moment, before finally finding words. “His father thinks he asked for this. That Tony’s being queer gave someone license to abuse him.”

“In essence.”

“Son of a  _ bitch _ .” Bucky hadn’t even been that angry with  _ Rumlow _ . In truth, Bucky had been too terrified on Tony’s behalf to spare much in the way of anger toward Rumlow. That would come later, the need for revenge, the bad dreams where Bucky was too late, the dimming of that glow in Tony’s eyes and how goddamn awful Bucky was going to feel about it.

But right at that very second, Bucky was on fire with utter loathing for Howard Stark. Son of a bitch was exactly right.

“Tony can stay with us,” Bucky said, firmly.

“Very good, sir,” Mr. Jarvis said. “If you like, I can escort you to young sir’s room, now.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Tony had never felt so lost in his entire life. He knew exactly where he was, he knew how he’d gotten there, and he knew everything that was going on. And yet…

The best he could have explained it, if anyone had known how to ask, was that most of him, the important parts, the stuff that made him Tony Stark, had been shut up in a little glass closet and he could see and hear and understand, but no one noticed that he was gone. That the person walking around in Tony’s skin and answering questions directed at Tony, and making sure he wasn’t injured, took medication, had something to drink; that person wasn’t really Tony at all. Just a pale shadow that was going through the motions.

Tony had known exactly what Jarvis was saying, and the blazing fury in Bucky’s eyes had said that  _ Bucky  _ knew exactly what Jarvis was saying, too.  _ Don’t come home. Your father doesn’t want you to come home. It’ll be bad.  _ It had been years since the last time Howard actually hit him, that one crystal moment in Tony’s life when he was seventeen and Howard raised a hand to slap Tony’s face where Tony had clenched a fist. It was that moment where Howard realized that Tony was at least as tall as his father, somewhat heavier built, and almost an adult. Tony had thought, at that moment, that his days of being someone else’s punching bag were over.

It was good to be reminded that things could always be worse.

Bucky had Tony’s hand in a firm grip, the right hand hot and the left hand curled around it soothing cool metal. “You can come stay with Tash and I, for a while,” Bucky was saying. “Or whatever you want. We just don’t think you should be alone.”

_ I want my mother. _ Tony didn’t say that.  _ Stark men are iron. _

“Sure, that’d be good,” he said, dully. He didn’t want to be back in his dorm room, that was certain. Justin Hammer never could keep his fucking mouth shut and Tony did not want to talk right now. Not to anyone. It had been bad enough -- terrible enough -- talking to the police. Worse, he thought, really, than the actual attack. He’d been too drunk and too scared to really feel humiliated. That had waited until there were four fucking cops standing around while Tony was dressed in a hospital gown and bare feet, with the way they looked at him, dismissive and disgusted at the same time. 

Bucky’s sister, Natasha, who was often fierce and harsh and cold, had an arm under him, holding him up, and Tony found her compact strength a comfort. “Do you need help getting dressed,  _ luchik _ ?” Dully, Tony let her help him, having been poked and prodded by more medical staff than he wanted to think about, after being on display for half the school, it wasn’t like it mattered, but Natasha was quick, efficient, and just personal enough to make him realize she was looking at him like a person, not as a  _ victim _ .

He could develope a lot of hatred for that word.

“Thanks,” he said. 

“I sent my brother off to get your medications filled,” she said. “We’re going to take you home, okay?”

Tony nodded, leaning harder on her. God, he was just so tired. He wanted to sleep and at the same time, he was terrified of sleep, of nightmare hands that were going to grab for him, hold him under, hold him down.

Natasha kept up a soft patter of talk, not expecting answers. “We’re going to leave the hospital now, and my car is just up the way. Bucky’ll be with us in a few minutes. Do you want to sit in the front, or the back? The back, okay, that’s good, honey. You want Bucky to sit with you? He can’t drive, so it can’t be me. No, he’s all right, they just doped him up some. Yeah, he’s got some cracked ribs. Yeah, I know, sounds painful, doesn’t it?”

She talked the whole time, gentle, easy, telling him where he was, what they were doing next. It was… soothing. Tony didn’t have to look around, he didn’t have to be on alert, he didn’t have to make decisions. Natasha was going to take care of everything, and Tony was secure. Nothing was going to happen. She checked the back seat of her car before unlocking it, and helped Tony in, getting him buckled in with quick hands, then sat on the edge of the seat with him until Bucky was there. “It’s okay if he sits here with you? Yeah, okay,  _ luchik _ . We’ve got you. We’re gonna make sure everything’s safe.”

At the last instant, Tony reached out and caught her hand. “You’ve…” He didn’t know what he wanted to ask, didn’t know how to say it, but she gave him a quick, sympathetic smile that didn’t look strained around the edges.

“I’ve been through it, yes,” she said. “And it hurts. You’ve been injured. We know that. It’ll heal. It may take longer than you want it to, and you may relapse. But it will get better. In time.”

Tony nodded and Natasha squeezed his fingers before letting go. She closed the car door and circled around to the driver’s side. Bucky was a warm comfort on the other side and Tony found himself leaning into that warmth, wanting the physical contact. 

“We’ve got you, Tony,” Bucky said, carefully petting Tony’s hair. “We’re gonna take you home.”

Home.

That was a nice thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this story got suddenly very dark, and possibly triggering to people with sexual assault trauma. I had a bad couple of days where some of my own stuff got stirred up -- talking a friend down from self-harm and the processes of checking into a mental hospital -- and all the sudden I was essentially bleeding all over this story.
> 
> I stopped writing for a bit while I tried to decide if I want to do this, or if I wanted to back it up and pull the story back into the light and fluffy (well, as light and fluffy as I ever am, because even here, I’ve been dealing with issues like bulimia and parental neglect and cheating.) I sought advice from several writing friends, and I’d like to thank all of them for reading through and commenting.
> 
> In the end, I decided to stick with what I’d already written on my mantra of what I’ve been saying since I started writing fic again back in August. Fic as therapy. I need this. So, hopefully, I won’t traumatize anyone too much. If it’s too much for you, please feel free to back out and stop reading, because at least for the next few chapters, we’re going to be dealing with fallout from this, including Howard’s A+ parenting, fitting back into school after trauma, and the other shit that comes around with these situations.
> 
> Summary
> 
> Bucky gets into a fight at work as part of his job, ends up being late to Jan's costume party. While looking for Tony, he's given the impression that Tony may be cheating on him and left the party with another man.
> 
> When Jan and Bucky finally find Tony, he's being assaulted by Rumlow, who has drugged Tony. Bucky kicks the tar out of Rumlow, and he and Jan take Tony to the hospital. The Jarvises arrive to take Tony home, but Mr. Jarvis tells Bucky it might be best of Tony didn't come home because Howard is being a complete asshole.


	5. Hopping Down the Money Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the more you need people, the harder you push them away...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god.
> 
> This chapter contains triggers for:  
> Sexual Trauma  
> Abusive Parenting  
> Terrible decision making  
> drinking  
> victim-blaming
> 
> Skip to the end for a summary if you need to brace yourself.

Tash was going to kill him, and that was pretty much okay as far as Bucky was concerned. His form was suffering, too, but Bucky refused to back down. The fire in his ribs was a welcome distraction, physical pain was something he could do something about, after all.

He shallowed his breathing, which eased the pressure on his cracked ribs and went at the bag again.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a lithe, white arm moving rapidly and suddenly his wrist was caught in a tight grip.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Barnes?” Victoria Hand, his boss, and holder of several belts and trophies for more martial arts than Bucky could pronounce, glared at him. “You’re on medical leave for the next three weeks, and don’t tell me you’re all better because I can hear you wincing all the way across the gym.”

Bucky stepped back, trying not to gasp for breath. He also was trying really hard not to try to break Hand’s grip on him, because she’d probably kick his ass without thinking about it and then be sorry, but it would still be his ass on the floor.

“Need to work out,” Bucky said, twitching his fingers.

“You are on medical leave,” Hand repeated. “You know I pay for that, right? And if you injure yourself worse on your own time, I’m not paying for that.”

Bucky gave a half shrug and she finally let go of him. He wiped his face with a hand towel and backed away from the bag. No way she was going to let him start up again. “I know, I just…” Bucky hesitated. “Look, shit happened last week an’ I’m trying to work it out, but. I just needed to hit something for a while.”

Hand glared at him. She was really, really good at that. “Then get _therapy_ ,” she said, finally. “We have a good medical program, Barnes, get with it. Because this --” and she gestured at the punching bag “-- just puts it in your head that the answer to anger is violence. Show up. Negotiate. Compromise. Then violence. Always, always it should be a last resort. And I won’t have you on my team, around my women, if you lose track of that.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but Hand pressed a finger to his lips. “I can’t talk about this, Barnes,” she said. “If I say what I know, you weren’t _at work_ \--”

Well, so much for pulling a fast one; technically, his ribs had probably been broken before he’d gotten into the fight with Rumlow, and there was a police report for that incident, but if Hand acknowledged that there was more than one fight, the fact that workman’s comp was covering his medical bills would go up in so much smoke. Bucky nodded, quick, and didn’t meet her eyes.

“Get better,” she said, softly. “Take the time you need. Your job will be waiting for you. But don’t let me catch you back here again, or that’s off the table.”

Bucky nodded again, sighing. Hand was a great boss, but sometimes-- he gazed lovingly at the punching bag. But she was right and he knew it. The line of fire in his chest hadn’t eased up at all, and he wasn’t doing himself any good at all, hurting on the outside. It was easier than hurting on the inside, but it didn’t fix what was wrong, not even a little.

Bucky hit the showers, endured one comment from someone who probably had less brains than a sock about the bag wasn’t supposed to hit back, and got dressed. To save himself the temptation, he turned in his tag at the front desk. “I’ll be back in a month,” he said to the girl, and headed out.

A dark Cadillac pulled up to the curb just as he was stepping into the street. The mirrored glass rolled down and Bucky was surprised to see a familiar face.

Howard Stark.

The driver got out and opened the door for Bucky.

“Need a ride?”

“Um, I’m good, thanks,” Bucky said. “My bike’s in the lot.”

“Get in, Mr. Barnes,” Stark said. Bucky frowned, but wasn’t sure arguing with his boyfriend’s dad on a public road was the best plan, either. He slid into the car, stomach churning.

Bucky put on his resting bitch face; he wasn’t sure what this was about, but it probably wasn’t good. He didn’t say anything, either. Nothing made people more nervous than silence. Stark would say what was on his mind, or he wouldn’t, but Bucky wasn’t going to give him anything to work with.

“I looked you up, you know,” Stark said. He didn’t seem impressed with Bucky’s murder-glare. Probably faced cut-throats in the boardroom all the time and thought himself tough. But Bucky had been a sniper at one point, and suits weren’t tough. They had power, but that didn’t mean anything.

He shrugged. He’d figured as much, when he bothered to think about it at all. Howard Stark was a rich man; rich men did stupid shit like collected files on people. There wasn’t anything in his life he was particularly ashamed of, even if he wasn’t proud of a lot of it, either.

“Lower middle class,” Howard Stark pointed out, “your whole life. No one in your family’s ever gone to college. Your father ran a bodega until his death, at which point you and your sister had to sell the family business to pay funeral expenses.”

Bucky chewed his tongue for a minute, but didn’t say anything. It was all true. And the fact that neither he, nor Tash, had any interest in running or working at the store, it had seemed easier to sell. Painful, sometimes, walking by the place as it happened from time to time, and see the bright, shiny box-store that was in its place, but Bucky had always believed in tying off the wound rather than a slow bleed. They’d have lost the store eventually; better to let it go with their dignity intact.

“You planned to go career military as a non-com,” Stark continued, “but had to medically discharge, halfway through your second tour. Now you work in a strip club. Your sister’s been in and out of mental health care facilities and has a spotty career as a ballet dancer. But you’re in debt, and you’re living hand-to-mouth.”

Still, nothing there was untrue. Bucky raised an eyebrow. _What’s your fucking point?_

“I can see where Anthony would be an attractive option for you,” Stark said, looking out the window, past Bucky’s left ear. “He’s young, he’s good looking, he’s rich, he’s intelligent. And a bit naive.”

Oh.

That’s where this was going.

Bucky leaned back against the car seat, not crossing his arms, not giving Howard the satisfaction of an eyeroll, or even a protest. Waiting it out seemed the best plan.

“Look, his mother and I are very grateful that you helped Tony out --”

“Really?” Bucky drawled, because honestly, he couldn’t just sit here any longer. “So grateful that it’s been almost a week, and neither of you came down to visit him.”

Stark didn’t even bat an eyelash. “There were reasons.”

Bucky scoffed. “Reasons. Sure. Are those the reasons where you think his ‘lifestyle choices’ had something to do with him being assaulted, or were they more of the ‘I work and that’s the only thing that’s important to me’ sort of reasons?” Bucky went full on with the sarcasm and the air quotes. “Whatever. Don’t care.”

“Perhaps you should reconsider that stance, Mr. Barnes,” Howard said. He flitted his gaze to Bucky’s face, but whatever he saw there wasn’t interesting enough to keep his attention. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a leather billfold. “I only have Anthony’s best interests in mind. And I don’t think you’re that. So, rather than draw this out and make it painful, allow me to be direct. How much?”

 _What?_ “Excuse me?”

“We’re both men of the world, Mr. Barnes. Let's not insult each other with false modesty or protests. How much money will it take for you to get out of his life?”

“You want to _pay me_ to break up with Tony?” Really, if it wasn't so infuriating, it would almost be funny.

Stark shrugged. “It’s a college relationship,” he pointed out. “Anthony’s not an adult yet. You know that as well as I do. I can offer you more in one lump sum up front than you can manage to wheedle out of him in the six to eighteen months this is going to last.”

“If you think we’re so doomed, why bother?”

“He doesn’t need the distraction at this point in his academic career. I’m concerned, justifiably so, that he’s not going to be able to complete his course work and other responsibilities--”

Bucky snarled, unable to help the sound that escaped his throat, even working at it to make it sound like a cough. “I’m pretty sure that being assaulted is going to distract from his course load, and that maybe, for a while, as he recovers, he might need someone around who cares about him. Tony’s a smart guy. Taking a medical withdrawal for a semester’s not going to hurt him.”

“You admit you’re encouraging this?”

“What part of _he was assaulted_ is unclear to you?” Bucky was wide-eyed with rage, his hands were shaking.

“Stop being all indignant about my son’s supposed mental health and give me a number,” Stark said, tapping the checkbook with a pen.

“I ought to make you eat that check,” Bucky snapped. He scrambled for the door handle. “No. No, god, no, fuck no, _fuck you_. You… I can’t… you’re a terrible person and you don’t deserve a son like Tony. You son of a bitch.”

Stark merely smiled and put the checkbook back in his pocket. “You’ll regret that decision.”

“Pretty sure I won’t.”

***

Tony had been in front of the media for his entire life. He was interviewed by People magazine when he was six. He’d been caught on camera at eleven and asked for a statement when his father’d been caught having an affair with his secretary. (It wasn’t the first time Howard had been unfaithful, but it was the first time he’d been publicly caught with his pants down.) He’d been filmed being arrested (drunk, underage driving) and had his mug shot in the papers (when he went into rehab at age sixteen, yay, stupid decisions).

He’d had microphones shoved at him, had nudes circulated on the internet. He’d gotten kidnapped a few times. He’d even had all sorts of blackmail attempts made. And he’d never felt this much like a bug under a magnifying glass in his _entire life_.

It’s not like people didn’t know who he was; there’d rarely been a time on campus where at least a few other people didn’t know him. He did, sometimes, run into a few lost souls who didn’t pay attention to current events, or who knew Howard Stark’s name, but didn’t realize that his son attended class with them. That happened. Occasionally. Especially the first year he was at school. But by his second year, he was pretty much universally recognized.

The rumor mill had been churning in the week he was gone. Everyone knew what happened; to some dubious degree of inaccuracy.

Mostly inaccurate.

 _Sometimes_.

Someone had taken _goddamn pictures._ Tony knew this because a whole bunch of them showed up in his email box.

Some of them because they were taunting him. Some were concern-trolling. Some people wanted to make sure he knew the pictures were out there in case someone else was concern-trolling. Every single player on the football team sent them, because Brock Rumlow was on the team, and he was now benched for the duration of the investigation. Tony wasn’t sure if that was concern-trolling, or regular trolling. Although some people had added lovely little notes, like “I would kill myself, if I were you.” So, that was great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

And then there was the fact that his friends -- his real ones, of which he had… three. Five if you counted Bucky and Natasha, except that those two weren’t on campus, so at least in this particular case, he didn’t have to worry about whether or not they counted -- had showed up to escort him around to class.

They were sort of sneaky about it, except not really, because Pepper never, ever just randomly walked with him to class. And she’d tried to hand him a cup of coffee, which had freaked him out so badly that he’d ended up being stupidly grateful that she was there, because he had dissolved in a bad case of the shivers and nearly fallen onto the brick sidewalk. She’d gotten him to a bench, disposed of the offensive cup of coffee, and then held his hand and rubbed it until he felt more himself again.

Rhodey and Bruce both stayed with him at lunch -- Tony was pretty sure that Bruce was actually skipping class to be there, and that was nice, except at the same time, it was sort of weird and made him feel fragile in a way he couldn’t properly express. At least he didn’t have to; they talked mostly to each other, directing comments to him from time to time to make sure he knew they weren’t ignoring him, but at the same time, taking his mostly sullen silence in stride and not pressuring him too much.

Which didn’t keep Tony from noticing all the sidelong glances; not just from his friends, but from everyone. People fell silent when he walked by. He also noticed every time someone laughed. He wasn’t quite narcissistic enough to think that everyone was laughing _at him_ , specifically. Mostly. Except sometimes, apparently he was, because he kept flinching.

And feeling eyes on him.

He about jumped out of his skin when Rhodey put a hand on his shoulder. “Man, are you okay, Tones? You sure you want to do class?”

Tony set his jaw. _Iron. Stark men were iron._ He’d done his 8am already, sitting in the back with his sunglasses on. He probably hadn’t heard one in ten words that the professor had said, but it didn’t matter, it was a two hundred level engineering class and he was only taking it because the prof wouldn’t let him test out and he had to have it as a required class to take the four hundred level companion class. (Which he’d actually already taken, but his adviser had let him know about the requirement after the fact.)

His 11am class had been worse; the class was smaller, and even sitting in the back hadn’t kept other students from craning their necks around to see.

A few people with phones had pulled theirs out and Tony was pretty sure he was the subject of several texting conversations going on while the professor lectured and looked absolutely everywhere _except_ at Tony.

It would die down, Tony told himself. It had to. Something else would happen, people would forget -- or if not forget, at least by the time another episode of _Game of Thrones_ came out, people would find other, better things to talk about. He hoped. Because he didn’t think he could deal with this. Not today. Not for another day. Not for another _minute_.

“No,” Tony grated, between clenched teeth, “but I’m going to do it anyway.” Under other circumstances, he might have said fuck it, but he wasn’t, actually, sure that he could say the word.

“Tone --”

“Get your hand off me _right now_.”

Rhodey backed up so fast he almost fell over and the expression on his face was somewhere between appalled and anguished. For just a moment, Tony wanted to apologize, but then… no. _No_ , he wasn’t going to apologize for anything, anything at all, he needed to do to cope with this… whatever it was. And he was going to class, because there was no way in hell he was going to let Rumlow _win_.

And turning into a whimpering idiot was losing. In the worst possible way.

***

The lamps were all set up clustered around the kitchen table, radiating soft white light that cast diffused shadows.  

Tash was carefully posing her Lego figures and circling the table, carefully snapping off photographs.

“Selling your kid stuff on eBay again?” Bucky threw himself onto the sofa and then flinched as his ribs protested.

Tash didn’t answer him, rearranging the little mini-figs, and then snapping some more pictures. Finally, she straightened up, pressing her hands to the small of her back. “Nah, I’m doing a web-comic in my spare time,” she said.

 _What spare time?_ Bucky’s sister was one of the busiest people that Bucky knew; always at rehearsals or out for drinks with her dance team, or performing, or reading interpretive poetry for mood-setting her dance pieces. “Okay,” Bucky said, slowly.

“It’s my _distraction du jour_ ,” she said.   

Oh. _Oh_.

“Tash, are you okay with Tony being here?”

Tash nodded, her chin bobbing up and down so fast that it sent her hair skittering into her face. “It’s not him, it’s the situation. Stirs things up. But I’m happy to have him here, poor kid.”

Bucky winced. Tony wasn’t _a kid_. “You don’t know the half of it,” Bucky said. He scrubbed at his face with both hands, wishing he could wipe his brain and start over. What a terrible week it had been, the last in a series of terrible dreams. “Saw his father yesterday.”

“You didn’t mention that,” Tash pointed out. She took her camera over to the computer and started downloading the photos.

“Not while Tony was here, no,” Bucky said.

“What happened?”

“Bastard wanted to pay me to walk away.”

Tash blinked a few times and actually gave him her full attention. “He did what?”

“Offered to pay me to dump Tony.” Bucky clenched his fists, listening to his arm whir and click. “Said that it would be over soon enough anyway, I may as well get something out of it before screwing Tony up too much.”

“And he thinks you dumping Tony will, what? Fix him?”

Bucky shrugged. “I think he doesn’t want low-class rubbing all over his precious heir.”

“Well, I can see where Tony gets it from,” Tash said. She glanced at her brother again, then dug out a bottle of vodka from under the kitchen sink and poured two tumblers. She sat down on the sofa next to him and handed him the glass. “Poyekhali!”

“What are we drinking to?” Bucky tipped his glass back and let the liquor slide down his throat. Tash was already pouring a second one.

“You’re going to need fortification to tell Tony about this,” she said, philosophically. She threw down the next shot and exhaled softly.

“The _fuck_ am I going to tell Tony about this,” Bucky snapped. He rolled the tumbler in his hand, not drinking, then… shit, yeah, he was going to drink it anyway. He snapped back the shot.

“You have to tell him, Yasha,” Tash said. “This isn’t something you can ostrich into non-existence. This is his father, this is his family.”

“No, no,” Bucky said, “that’s a bad idea, Tash. Very bad idea. I can’t tell him someone offered me money to give him up, that’s… that’ll hurt him.”

Tash refilled his glass. “Buck up, big brother,” she said.

Bucky threw back the glass; it had been a while since he’d done shots with his sister, but there was something comforting and familiar about it. The burn of vodka, so smooth on the tongue but like a little blowtorch at the back of his throat, there was something like home in it, despite the fact that neither of them had ever been to Russia. Their grandparents had emigrated when their father was in his early teens, met their mom at a Russian Orthodox event. But they both spoke Russian, and a lot of their heirlooms were from the motherland. Drinking shots together had been a tradition they started after their parents died.

“I can’t tell him,” Bucky said.

“Why not? You told his dad to go to hell, didn’t you?” Tash stared at him over the rim of her glass. “You did tell him that, right. Tell me you didn’t take money from that bastard.”

“No! I would _never_.” Bucky clenched his jaw, the muscle working there, tight and angry. He never would, but damn it, it was… well, not a regret, honestly. He couldn’t regret it. But it was going to end up being one of those thoughts that haunted him in the middle of the night. _What if..._

“So what’s the problem?”

“It’s his father. I shouldn’t put him in a position like that.”

“Horseshit, Yasha,” Tash said. She threw back one last shot, then capped the vodka tightly and put it aside. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she fluttered her eyelashes to clear them. “You didn’t put him there.”

“Tash --” Bucky’s voice broke. “I could _lose_ him.”

“You think he’ll think you were tempted?”

“ _I was_.” God, that hurt to admit, but it was true. Who didn’t think about shit like that, especially when money was tight? The kind of money Howard Stark could dump on him was mind-boggling. “And even if he doesn’t think that, you know it’s the kind of thing that’ll come up every time we fight -- _you shoulda taken the money_ …”

“You worried he’ll think that when you fight, or that you will?”

“I ain’t a fuckin’ saint,” Bucky burst out. His glass was empty.

“I don’t think anyone expects you to be,” Tash said, gently. “But you have to tell him. Yasha, he’s had too many of his choices taken away from him, recently. You can’t protect him from this, he’ll resent that more. That you don’t think he’s strong enough --”

“What if he’s not? What if I lose him over this? Tash, I love him.” Bucky put his glass down carefully. He wasn’t going to ask her for another shot. He ran both hands through his hair, trying to keep his thoughts from breaking through his skull.

“Then you lose him,” she said. God, his sister was so fucking _Russian_ sometimes, it was painful. “Sometimes you _don’t get to win_ , medvezhonok. But he deserves to know. And he deserves to be treated like a person, not a china doll wrapped in cotton. You can’t protect him from the world. He doesn’t want that, he doesn’t need that, and you will break him worse than his father by pretending that’s a thing that can happen. You be honest with him. _You have to_.”

Bucky rubbed at his eyes, hating the fact that they were wet, that his nose was stinging as he sat there, staring.

“If you love him, big brother, you gotta let him make his own choices,” Tash said, very gently laying her hand on his arm.

Bucky wasn’t quite sure who was more startled, him, or her, when he burst into tears. Tash put her arms around him and patted his hair. “I’ve been being used as a wailing wall so often these last few days, I should get one of those spit up blankets.”

“You are the _worst_ ,” Bucky managed, his breath hitching. “I don’t know why anybody likes you.”

“Because you’re an asshole,” Tash said, her hands moving soothingly against his back. “And no one else will put up with your shit.”

Bucky couldn’t help a short, barking laugh, that unfortunately just got him crying harder. God, siblings were _terrible_. He and Tash abused the shit out of each other. The sort of trash he’d dump on her, say to her…

He tugged back out of her embrace to look at her face, catching all the micromovements of her eyes, the way her smile wobbled at him, then the eyebrow that went up under his attentions. “Don’t get sappy on me, Yasha,” she said. “I really don’t think I could bear it.”

“Remind me to do something nice for you,” Bucky said, patting her shoulder with one hand, then wiping his eyes. He sniffled, loud and grotesque.

“Ug,” Tash said, leaning away from him. “How about you don’t snot all over me and we’ll call it even?”

“Still, I owe you one.”

Somewhere in the years that their parents had been gone, Bucky had almost, but not quite, forgotten Ma Barnes’s signature stare. Tash, apparently, had not, because she duplicated it, right down to the tip of her neck. “You act like you think I don’t know everything you do for me, Yasha. But don’t worry. I know. You don’t owe me anything. You’re my brother. You’re the only family I have. We support each other because that’s what we do.”

“And you accuse me of turning into a sap.”

“Jerk.”

“Little punk.”

***

Tony’s fingers hesitated over his phone screen. Tash or Bucky had been picking him up from school after his classes, but he’d deferred on Friday because he had homework to do, and he was hoping to have an easier time with the work if he did it in his room, instead of going back to the Barnes’s after class.

He was just finishing up the equations -- he had to admit, he hated his dorm room so much right now that he was hurrying through the math just so he could get out of there. Justin Hammer, his roommate, who was more of an ass than anything else (Tony sometimes wondered who he was blowing to get and stay in school, because Hammer was just that stupid sometimes) had treated Tony like he was… contagious somehow. Like staying in the room with him too long would somehow infect Hammer.

There was a quick double-rap on his door. Tony glanced up; he wasn’t expecting anyone, but that didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t Jan, he knew her knock.

He was almost tempted to just not open the door; the visitors he’d had this week hadn’t exactly made him happy.

“Tony, kid?” A familiar voice said outside his door. “I brought pizza.”

Tony was out of his chair so fast he knocked it over in his haste to get to the door.

“Obie?”

His godfather juggled the pizza for a moment, trying not to dump the box on Tony’s head as Tony crushed himself up against his godfather’s reassuring bulk. Obie ran a hand over the top of Tony’s head. “Hey kid,” Obie said. “I talked to your dad yesterday. Thought I’d come --”

“You talked to Dad,” Tony said, flatly, releasing his godfather and gesturing him into the room. “How’d that go?”

“Just because I brought pizza back from New York doesn't mean it went bad,” Obie protested. “Okay, so yeah, it went bad. But here, have some pizza anyway.”

“You are the best, best, _best_ ,” Tony said. God, he missed New York pizza. Even barely warm. “What’s Howard’s problem this time?” Tony said it, totally casual, as if he didn’t already know.

Obie scratched at his forehead. “You know your dad,” Obie said. “He wants what’s best for you, he’s just…”

“Got no idea what that is,” Tony finished for him, stuffing a triangle of pizza into his mouth and wiping grease off his chin with his shirt cuff.

“You threw him for a loop, this time, kiddo,” Obie said. He grabbed Hammer’s desk chair and sat down backward in it, leaning his massive arms across the back. Obie was always very solid. Comforting. As far as Tony was concerned, the one thing Howard had ever done right in Tony’s entire life, was making Obadiah Stane Tony’s godfather. The truth of the matter was, Obie had always been more father-figure to Tony than Howard was.

Tony managed a scoff, even though his chest was aching. “It’s not like I did it on purpose this time.”

“Kid,” Obie said, “gotta ask. Were you drinking, that night?”

Tony almost choked on a mouthful of pizza; the spices from the sauce going right up into his sinus cavity. He spluttered. “My god, Obie, you may as well ask if my skirt was too short,” Tony snapped. He carefully sat the piece of pizza down, wiped his hands and face on a paper napkin. “Yes, I was drinking. Yes, I was flirting with the guy. No, I didn’t protest, right up until he decided to try to suffocate me. Is that what you’re asking for? You want to know how much of _this is my fault_?” Tony’s voice started to spiral out of his control, getting higher and faster as he went, and by the end of his rant, he was breathing hard and his eyes were prickling.

“Hey, hey,” Obie said, holding his hands up, “Tony. You got everyone thrown for a loop, here. Now, I already talked to legal about it --”

“Don’t,” Tony said. He jerked his chin to one side. He’d gone through this with the cops, he’d gone through it with the school’s investigator, and he’d managed to not go through it with two newspaper reporters and the kid from the college’s magazine that tried to interview him for it. Classic fucking case and he didn’t want to talk about it any more. That was a conversation that just wasn’t going to happen, okay?

“Kid. Tony.”

Obie got out of his chair and lightly touched Tony’s chin, tipping his head this way and that. Tony knew what he was looking at; the remains of the bruises were still there, brown and soft like a rotten apple against his throat. Nothing compared to the bruises he’d seen on Bucky’s ribs when he accidentally bumped into Bucky coming out of the shower the other day. He swallowed a lump of guilt.

“What?” Defiant, as much as he could manage.

Obie put a hand on Tony’s shoulder and it was all that he could do not to jerk away. People touching him was giving him the creepy-crawlies recently. He wanted to shower; he wanted to stand under hot water until his skin was red and and maybe he’d feel _something else_. “Look, I’m not saying you shouldn’t have a little fun while you’re at school,” Obie said. He took a bottle out of the bag that Tony had assumed contained napkins and garlic knots or something, and sat a bottle of whiskey on Tony’s desk. “I am saying that if you’re gonna drink yourself stupid, do it in your room, okay? You gotta be careful out there. It’d just about kill me-- er, your dad and me, if something were to happen to you.”

 _Something did happen to me._ Tony unclenched his fists. Reached for the bottle. Obie watched, then grinned, as Tony cracked the cap and downed two large gulps and then exhaled easier on the swallow.

“That’s my boy,” Obie said, clapping him on the shoulder again. “You always did put it away like a man.”

Tony snorted. “Yeah, that’s what my dad thinks, too,” he said, heavy on the sarcasm. Of course Howard had never thought Tony was a man, from his girlish interest in poetry when he was younger all the way through his current relationship with another man.

“He said --” Obie dropped back into the chair and gave Tony that particular look which usually meant Tony would want more to drink before he heard what it was Obie was thinking. Tough love; Obie was a master at it, and while Tony sometimes hated the things that came out of Obie’s mouth, they were never untrue. Tony appreciated that. Obie never lied to him. “He said you’re dating an older man, kid.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah, Bucky Barnes,” he said. “Um, ex-military guy. We’ve been seeing each other since Christmas.” Damnit, that was a slip-up. His parents thought he and Bucky had been dating a few months before that. That was the problem with telling lies. You had to keep track of them all. Better just not to answer questions. But Obie probably wouldn’t ask his parents about it, so that was okay.

“Look, I don’t want to tell you your business, but are you sure that’s a good plan, kid?”

Tony stared, took another slug out of the bottle, and went back to staring. “ _Bucky’s_ not the one… who --” He couldn’t say it. He simply _could not_ give voice to that thought. That bottle was starting to look awfully good, and he took another sip.

“Raped you,” Obie filled in, and Tony flinched so hard that he almost lost the bottle completely.

“It didn’t… he didn’t... “ Tony stuttered.

“He wanted to,” Obie said, gently. Very gently. And hearing it hurt, hurt the way the police watching him had hurt, the way his classmates seeing him in the aftermath had hurt. Peeled his skin up and poked at the wound underneath, and…

“Yeah,” Tony said, agreeing because he didn’t want to protect Rumlow, either, didn’t want to say that wasn’t what was going to happen, because it had been, and there hadn’t been anything Tony could do to stop it, and if Bucky hadn’t been there, if…

Tony shoved the bottle at Obie and ran out of his room, headed for the bathroom. When he got there, he just barely managed to make it to the toilet before throwing up two slices of pizza and more booze than he’d obviously needed.

“Hey party boy,” someone mocked from the urinals. “Thought you would have had enough of that…”

Tony would have given eyeteeth (perhaps even his eyeteeth) for Obie to have not come into the dorm’s bathroom just then. He meant well, god knows, Obie meant well, but having one of his dormmates watch Tony get fussed over by his godfather… just made it worse.

Harder.

More awful.

***

God, Bucky hated driving Tash’s car. But they only had the one car and Bucky would have been blind not to notice how much Tony flinched away from people trying to touch him. Even when given some warning, asking permission, getting an acceptance, Tony still endured touch like someone endured a trip to the dentist.

Putting Tony on the back of Bucky’s bike and expecting him not to fall off was like expecting water to run uphill. Wasn’t happening in this universe. Not anytime soon.

Tash’s car, that she lovingly called Widowmaker, was ugly, black and rust, with one red front panel that had been replaced after an accident. Tash was also a slob; the car was full of cheeseburger wrappers and empty soda bottles. At least Bucky knew she was eating, and that she didn’t care who else knew she was eating.

He could still clearly remember one day, riding with Tash, he tried to roll the window down and it wouldn’t go. He’d taken it on himself to try to fix the window and discovered she’d been flattening candy bar wrappers and shoving them between the glass and the rubber seals. Enough that they’d eventually clogged the mechanism that allowed the window to go down.

Bucky slid into one of the fac/staff parking spaces -- it was after hours and he probably wouldn’t get a ticket, but if he did, fuck it. Tony had sent him a text about fifteen minutes ago.

 _Comeget me now._  

And Tony hadn’t answered any of the follow up texts, which had Bucky breathing faster than normal. He banged on the door to Tony’s dorm with one fist; stupid security measures, he didn’t have a card key to let himself in.

One of the students from the common room came and let him in, and Bucky was taking the stairs two at a time. Of course Tony’s room door was locked. Bucky knocked on that, too, trying hard not to bang too loud; he didn’t want to startle Tony.

No one answered.

“Tony?”

“He left,” one of Tony’s dorm guys said. “With his… dad?”

Bucky’s jaw clamped up, so tight that it was an effort to speak. “When?”

“Like five minutes ago.” The guy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “They went that way, if--”

Bucky was already running. _If Tony wants to go... Then you’ll lose him…._

But… Tony had asked for him to come get him.

Shit.

He didn’t see Tony so much as Bucky heard him. Talking; loud, annoyed, quickly. Tony’s voice carried on the evening air, and Bucky followed the sound of his voice until he caught up. Tony was arguing, waving his hands around, with an older man -- not Howard, Howard was thin and short and wiry, like his son. This man was huge, broad shouldered, built like a linebacker, with white hair and enormous fists. Hell of a reach, too. Bucky found himself sizing up the man like he was a rambunctious customer at the club.

“Tony!” Bucky skidded to a halt as Tony turned around.

“Look who’s coming to dinner,” the big man said, stage-whisper, obviously meaning Bucky to hear him. Bucky clenched one fist, itching to hit something. Maybe Hand was right; he should get a therapist. The man offered Bucky a fake smile, full of square, harsh teeth and absolutely no warmth whatsoever. It was like facing down a piranha. “You must be Barnes. I’ve heard about you.”

“Guess I must be,” Bucky said, not shaking the man’s hand. “Tony? You okay, kitten?”

The way Tony was swaying, gently, as if there was a breeze nudging him, with his carefully neutral expression, was making Bucky nervous. “I’m fine,” he said, enunciating. Bucky took a step closer. “Obie came down to take me home for spring break.”

Bucky blinked. “I thought --” He glanced at the big man, Obie, apparently. “Tony, can I talk to you for a minute? Alone.” Like he needed to say that, but the big man was already putting his hand on Tony’s shoulder, as if to hold him back. Tony shuddered, but didn’t shake him off. Bucky seethed, letting the air rush into and out of his lungs forcefully.

Tony ducked out from under the big man’s grip. “Yeah, just --” He flinched away from Obie’s second grab. “Gimme a min, Obie, wouldja?”

Bucky moved back, leading Tony a bit away; probably not out of earshot, but what else could he do. “I thought you were staying with us for break?”

Tony shook his head, just a little. “I don’t --” Tony stuttered a little, blinked. He reeked of whiskey. “I’m sorry you came all the way out here. I’m gonna go up with Obie for a few days. Get my head on straight, you know.”

“I don’t like this, Tony,” Bucky said, glancing at Obie. The big man wasn’t making a production of listening, but Bucky was pretty sure he was.

“Well, you don’t have to, do you?” Tony snapped.

“Tony, what --”

“Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done, and… maybe I just need to spend some time with family,” Tony said. He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, shuffling one foot around against the pavement.

Shit. This was not going well _at all._ “I saw your father earlier,” Bucky managed to get out. “He offered to pay me, to give you up.”

“Yeah?” Tony said, unsurprised. “Sounds like something Howard would do.” Tony flicked a glance up at Bucky’s face. “Hope you got something good out of it.”

“What?” Bucky went ice cold.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Tony said. “Think I’m gonna go off the market for a while. Get myself straight.”

“You’re not on the _fucking_ market, Tony,” Bucky hissed. “We’re _together_.”

Tony didn’t look at him. “I’ll make sure he holds up his end of the deal,” he said, flat, emotionless.

“Tony,” Bucky said, voice breaking. “Tony, baby, no, _don’t_ \--”

“Come on, kid,” Obie broke in. He held out one shovel-like hand to Tony. “Let’s go home.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. He turned away, let Obie put an arm around his shoulders and lead him away. He didn’t look back. Bucky knew this for a fact, because he watched the entire time, unblinking.

When the check arrived two days later, Bucky stared at it. Cried.

Cashed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:
> 
> Howard offers Bucky money to stop dating Tony. Bucky tells Howard to go to hell.  
> Tony deals with flashbacks and being touch-adverse after being sexually assaulted  
> Tash tells it like it is  
> Obie shows up to take Tony home  
> Tony drinks too much and gets victim-shamed by one of his classmates  
> Tony breaks up with Bucky to go home
> 
> A/N I am so, so sorry. And I can't promise it'll get better next month, altho EVENTUALLY we'll have a happy/hopeful ending. 
> 
>  
> 
> Notes:  
> Terrible Russian:  
> Poyekhali is a drinking toast that means “Go!” or “Let’s get to it!” or “Bring it!” depending on circumstances. My friend Sergi helped me with this translation; he is Russian American and lived in St. Petersburg for several years.  
> Medvezhonok -- Bear (essentially, she’s calling him Bucky-bear)


	6. Memorial Day Sale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know why you had to go... don't let pride keep you from coming back...

If Tony had to be honest, he hated the mansion.

Stark Mansion was stupidly large for such a small family. There were the three of them, Howard, Maria, and Tony. They were vastly outnumbered by the goddamn servants, for fuck’s sake and if that wasn’t some goddamn Jane Austen level bullshit, he didn’t know what was.

On the other hand, no one was around to force him to be honest, and so he was home. And hiding. There were seventy goddamn rooms in the Stark Mansion, and that wasn’t even including the turrets, where most of the servants lived. If his dad was looking for him -- not that Tony could imagine Howard actually _looking_ for him -- he was unlikely to be spotted, lurking in the back corner of a seldom-used orangery.

The orangery was nice, actually. Even if no one went there, it was still lush and fertile, the sunlight magnified by large windows and a series of discrete mirrors on the outside of the building, and the fact that someone still kept those fucking mirrors polished and had to change the angles of them as the sun moved across the sky during the months (well, technically, the wobble on the earth’s axis was responsible for the planet changing positions during the year, but whatever, someone still had to go outside and climb the side of the fucking house to adjust the mirrors every few months) and no one really ever went in the room was just…

Well, it would have been wasteful, but of course Tony was here now, and grateful to hide on one of the park-like benches in the back of the room and listen to the fall of water from the decorative fountain and breath in the moist air, and so he was grateful that the room had been kept up. The air was scented with freesia and gardenia, a touch of mint from the little herb garden. The bench was blocked from direct line of sight by a miniature orange tree that had gotten a little enthused about its purpose in life.

Of course it was Janet who found him, about the middle of the week (he thought; Tony hadn’t exactly been keeping anything resembling normal hours) by dint of opening all the doors and searching all the rooms. Tony had heard her long before she actually hit the orangery, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to get up and hide.

That would have required effort, and, as long as he was being honest, he sort of wanted someone to find him. Maybe. A little bit. It would have been nice to think someone had worried about him, even if it couldn’t possibly be his parents.

Howard had barely spoken to him since Obie dragged him home. Not that this was anything new or different, just that Howard had, actually summoned Tony to his office. Where Tony had gotten a very short, but brutal, lecture on maintaining his grades and Howard’s expectations. And that was all. Tony wondered, briefly, if Ana and Jarvis had been under orders not to speak to him, or only if he sought them out, or if they were waiting for him to seek them out, or…

Somehow he’d forgotten Jan was in the mansion, because when a pair of lemon-yellow high heels stopped into the spot on the ground where he was staring, Tony was confused.

“Well, you look like shit,” Jan said. Tony jerked his gaze up; she was wearing some sort of yellow spring dress with a black jacket over it, giving her an even more wasp-like appearance than usual. Punctuated by her tiny fists on her hips and the flat-mouthed glare she was directing his way.

“Nice to see you, too,” Tony said, then coughed, because his throat was so fucking dry it ached when he tried to talk. When the hell had he eaten last? He had no idea. He vaguely remembered sneaking into the kitchen to steal some food (did it really count as stealing? Obviously Ana had left a plate of sandwiches under cling wrap and a few bottles of water, so she knew he was alive, well, and in need of food, right?) but he couldn’t remember if that was last night, or the night before.

“Tony,” Jan said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. What? What? Had she been talking and--

“All right, enough, come on,” Jan said. She got one arm under his, ignoring Tony’s admittedly feeble attempts to pull away. “Food, drink, you probably have to piss, and maybe some sleep.”

“You don’t have to mother me,” Tony protested, but once he was on his feet, he found he was leaning on her a little more than he expected. Not to mention the fact that his mother had never actually mothered him. That was what the housekeeper and the nanny were for, right? Right.

“Tony, if I let you go to the bathroom by yourself right now, you’re going to piss on the floor and then fall in it. I promise I won’t watch.”

_Jesus Christ._

“Jan,” he said, trying to plant his feet, but having no success at that, and how the hell was she dragging him anywhere in those ridiculous shoes?

“Tony, I will yell at you later, I promise, but right now, you have to stop looking like you’re on the verge of passing out, okay?”

Tony sighed and abandoned himself to Janet’s not-so-tender mercies. It was easier than fighting.

Tony was so, so very tired of fighting.

***

“I almost didn’t come back,” Bucky said. He liked that Dr. Coulson didn’t have him laying back on a sofa, because that wasn’t comfortable for him at all. Made him feel even more vulnerable than he already did. He’d promised Hand that he’d get some sort of counselling and he was determined to stick it out, at least for a month, which was the minimal amount his insurance would pay for. If he didn’t attend four sessions, he’d have to pay the full office price, so he was stuck with it, anyway. But as long as he was straining for honesty…

“I got that impression,” Coulson said. He sat just opposite Bucky in a comfortable chair, one leg propped over his knee, which hitched his pants up just enough for Bucky to realize that he was wearing Captain America socks. Somehow that made Bucky just a little more at ease than perhaps someone’s sartorial choices should. “Do you have a theory as to why that is?”

Bucky covered his face with the metal arm, then peered at Coulson from between his fingers. “Because this whole situation sucks and I don’t feel any fuckin’ better?”

Coulson nodded, pressing his lips together. “You work out, right?”

“Yeah, when I ain’t benched.”

“Do you remember the very first time you did weight lifts?”

Bucky shrugged.

“Did you feel fantastic the next day?”

“Not subtle,” Bucky complained. “I thought you shrink guys were supposed to be less obvious in makin’ me feel like an idiot.”

“Do you feel like an idiot?”

_Uggggggg._

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re a troll?”

“Do you always answer questions with more questions?” That time Bucky actually caught the man smiling. “Seriously, James, you do have to work with me here. I’m attempting to draw you into a conversation. I’m sure you’ve had them before.”

“No, which I’m sure you know. Liftin’ weights is still painful, even though I’ve been doin’ it for years now,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes.

“Therapy is work, James,” Coulson said. “Sometimes it’s hard work, like lifting weights. Sometimes it’s less hard, like realizing you took a wrong turn and you can just drive around the block and get back on track. But if it were easy, you wouldn’t need it. People who have their lives under control don’t need therapy. And, as I said last time, but I think I should stress this, all I’m doing is giving you the tools to solve your problems. Only you can implement them.”

“And sometimes, I don’t get to win,” Bucky said. “My sister keeps telling me that one. I know.”

Coulson tipped a half smile. “Your sister’s been through therapy, I take it?”

That was an understatement; Tash had been in and out of the hospital both for her bulimia problems and for self-harm. Bucky knew that she knew what she was talking about, and that she was right, but it was still galling to have his baby sister lecturing him on how to live. And the fact that there was no magic pill in therapy; that sucked even worse. He was vomiting his feelings out -- and he felt like he’d never wept more in his life, and he fucking resented it -- and in the end, things could (and if he was being honest, and god, he was trying for honesty here, he really, really was) end up being just as much shit as they were now.

“Something like that,” Bucky said.

“Is she happy, now?”

Finally, a question that actually led to a less-than-horrible place. “She’s better,” Bucky said. “Not sure happy is exactly right.” Tash had gone through a series of terrible relationships, desperate for someone else to prop up her self-esteem, but they’d always ended badly. She’d decided, about a year ago, to stop dating for a while, and that was better, but she was still lonely. Bucky sighed. “She’s better,” he said again.

“Perhaps we should have a conversation about what you expect from therapy,” Coulson suggested. “Not what you think I want you to get out of it, but what your goals are.”

 _My goal is to get my damn boyfriend back._ “My boss seems to think I need to work on my temper,” Bucky said. And that was a goal, to earn Hand’s trust back.

“I didn’t ask what your boss wants,” Coulson pointed out.

“I know,” Bucky said. “You’re just gonna check my expectations.”

“Let’s get them out there before we decide what I am or am not going to do,” Coulson said.

“I want Tony back,” Bucky said. His voice cracked and his nose stung. He blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened. “I feel like I failed him, that I wasn’t enough, that I didn’t know how to help him. Like, who the fuck teaches you what to do when someone you care about is hurt like that? He was hurting, and I couldn’t help him.”

“All right, let me unpack this for you, then,” Coulson said. “You need better coping mechanisms to deal with unreasonable guilt. You need more education in order to provide support for a sexual assault survivor. And you need to realize that what’s right for you, and what you want, may not be what’s best, or possible, for Tony. And anger management, that your guilt and rage over what happened doesn’t affect your day-to-day life and you can develop some healthier outlets.”

None of that included ever getting Tony back.

Bucky sighed. Therapy sucked.

***

New Text from Natasha:

_I understand why you had to go. Don’t let pride keep you from coming back._

Tony stared at his phone. He hadn’t looked at it in days. He was only looking at it now because Jan had found it -- cracked screen where he’d thrown it against the wall -- and plugged it in while he was in the shower.

Jan was doing that and Tony found it just a little annoying. Picking up the empty food wrappers and throwing them out. Forcing not one but two bottles of water on him (and no coffee, which just seemed cruel). Making him eat.

When he’d gotten out of the shower, she’d selected clothes and laid them out on his bed; along with a snack and his charging phone.

Tony came within millimeters of throwing the damn phone across the room again, of breaking and destroying. He didn’t want water and a bag of almonds. He wanted the last two months to have _not fucking happened_.

He wanted a night’s sleep where he didn’t wake up gasping for air, soaked in sweat. He had trouble laying down; he always ended up sleeping on his back, no matter how many times he tried sleeping at a different angle, and he’d wake up, swear that someone was laying across him, that there were hands on his throat. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. He’d even tried sleeping with the damn lights on. It hadn’t helped.

The one time he broke into his mother’s stash of pills -- all legally prescribed and probably enough to kill a rhino, and Tony would be lying if he hadn’t considered the implications of that -- he’d managed to sleep, but sleeping hadn’t precluded dreaming. It just meant he couldn’t wake up, and the dream had gone to its logical and horrible conclusions.

So, he’d tried not sleeping, instead.

That wasn’t working out so well, either, given that Jan was trying to mother him into submission.

“Are you dressed, Tony?” Jan tapped on his door with her fingernail.

He took note that she didn’t say decent, which was their normal call and answer. He sighed. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Jan opened the door and strode over to him. “So, now, you tell me --” and she brandished her handbag at him, “-- what the fuck is up with you.”

It wasn’t a question, it was an order.

“Specifically, or in general?” Tony asked. “Because really, nothing is up. I’m just--”

“Pretending not to exist? Trying to wreck your life? Passive-aggressively trying to commit suicide?” Jan whacked him with her pocketbook, which didn’t actually hurt, but it was disconcerting as fuck. Perhaps not quite so much as her words, but once she’d unleashed the tidal wave of yelling and thwapping him, she couldn’t seem to stop. “What did you break up with Bucky for, you stupid idiot? Why are you here? You shouldn’t be here, Tony, you know that, this is wrong, this is destructive!”

“Goddamnit, Jan, _stop_!” Tony crossed his arms and shielded his head.

“Oh, so there is some of you still in there,” she snapped, then whacked his elbow. “I was starting to wonder.”

“Gimme a break!”

Jan put her hands on her hips. “Oh, I am, Tony.”

Tony was shaking with the effort of holding his emotions in some sort of check. Yelling at Jan, hurling abuse at a girl he’d known his entire life, whose friendship he held in no small amount of esteem, wasn’t going to help anything. But god damn it, she was making it hard. And at the same time, there was a familiarity to the arguments. They’d had them before; yelling, screaming, throwing things fights.

While he wouldn’t exactly schedule himself for a purse-smacking on a regular basis, there was something comforting about it. That Jan didn’t think he was this… fragile thing that needed to be coddled, or a malfunctioning circuit that needed to be replaced, or in the case of his father, a broken child that needed to be reminded what was expected of him.

“What do you want from me?”

“Are you angry, Tony? Then fucking be angry! Be pissed off. Be upset if you need to. Cry. Scream. _Something_. Tony, just don’t you dare leave like this!”

“I’m fine, Jan,” Tony said. God, he was tired.

“The fuck you are.” Jan whacked him with her purse again. “You are the furthest thing from fine I’ve seen since Hank tried to be fashionable.”

That actually got a laugh out of him, choked and bitter, and once Tony made a sound, let something show, let some emotion leak out, it was like a dam broke. Tony found himself on his knees, Jan’s arms around his back as he sobbed into her stomach. He wailed anger and grief and fear, and like a willow, Jan bent around him, and yet supported him. His fingers dug into her hips, probably leaving bruises and she was still as solid as a rock. She murmured to him, soothing nonsense.

She never once said it would be okay.

She didn’t say everything would work out.

She didn’t say time would heal all wounds.

Tony appreciated that; those little clumps of nonsense kept making him want to argue. It wouldn’t be okay, nothing was going to work out, and he was bleeding out.

What Jan did say was that she’d always admired him; that she found his intelligence astonishing in its depths as it was occasionally lacking in details. That he made her laugh. That he made her think. The Tony was brave, that he was strong, and that he had people who loved him. That shitty things sometimes happened to good people, and that it wasn’t his fault.

There were more tears than Tony could have counted. When he finally tapered off, he felt hollow and empty and scraped out and scratched raw and bleeding freely. But the storm passed.

Eventually.

“All right, Tony,” Jan said. “This is what we’re going to do. You’re gonna come stay with me for the rest of spring break, and not in this toxic mansion. And we’re going to figure out what to do, okay?”

“Okay.”

***

Peter Quill sat down, straddling his barstool. “Hey man,” he said, adjusting the collar on his jacket, sprinkling rainwater everywhere. It was raining like the Great Flood was just a warmup activity.

“Peter,” Bucky said. He shoved a shot glass of vodka at his co-worker. Bucky didn’t have all that terribly many friends. But he’d taken homework from Coulson as part of his therapy that involved getting out of the house and doing something social. Bucky was pretty sure getting shit faced wasn’t going to count as constructive socializing, but he didn’t think he was ready to do anything that involved other people while sober.

“Piet!” Peter yelled.

“Re-pete,” Pietro Maximoff said, and the two of them laughed at their stupid injoke. That had been going on at the Red Room since Quill was hired. Bucky’d been just as happy that the other Peter who’d applied for the job had gotten turned down for being too young. The last thing he needed at work was endless Peter jokes.

Bucky’d been pretty deliberate when choosing who he wanted to go out and get toasted with; Quill was excitable and usually pretty happy. Gorgeous to look at and bisexual if the rumor was true. And Maximoff was a horn-dog, about as deep as a looking-glass, and had bottomless energy. Between the two of them, something ridiculous was bound to happen.

Bucky wasn’t -- not _exactly_ , he told himself -- on the prowl.

“So what’s your jam, man?” Quill asked, leaning against the bar and taking another shot; Bucky had ordered a whole tray. Just give him the bottle already, it’s not like he didn’t have the cash to spare these days.

And he was so fucking angry about it, he wanted to do something stupid. Just something. Something to get the taste out of his mouth. Wash it down, forget it.

Tony wasn’t answering his texts; Bucky’d finally given up and settled for emailing Jan Van Dyne. She hadn’t responded either, and Bucky got the fucking message.

Go away.

Yeah, he was going. Fuck.

Bucky slammed down another shot, turned the glass over on the bar.

“Hammered,” Bucky said. He knocked back another shot. “Then nailed, if anyone interesting comes in.”

Quill held his fingers up, framing Bucky’s face and pretending to stare. “Have you seen yourself, man? Pick a pretty face and take it for a ride. Damn, if I had looks like yours, I’d never sleep alone again.”

“If you had looks like Bucky, you’d never sleep,” Maximoff said.

“Yeah, but Bucky’s looks are compromised,” Quill said. He raised a shot glass. “He’s got his happily-ever-after face on whenever he’s interested. Scares people off.”

“Asshole,” Bucky muttered. He considered, briefly, stupidly, turning the charm on for Quill, but really, he didn’t think he wanted to have a rebound fuck with someone he worked with. That could get awkward in any number of ways. He knocked back another shot, realized the glasses were all empty and gestured to the bartender to keep ‘em coming. He wasn’t near numbed enough.

“Oh, you got eyes, Barnes,” Maximoff said. “She sure as hell ain’t watchin’ me.”

Bucky took another shot before turning around, searching. Maximoff was hissing advice and directions in his ear; the girl in the purple dress, no, the _purple…_ the one with brown hair, idiot. Yeah, there you go, look, she’s lookin’ now.

She was cute enough, Bucky supposed. Chesty, brunette with a narrow waist. Short, with that bigger-than-life attitude a lot of short people had. She wasn’t trying to sell herself as taller, either; she was wearing black, glittery flats.

“Oh, ho,” Quill said, thumping Bucky on the back. “He’s got that hold-my-beer look going.”

They were daring him, and Bucky was… something. Wanting to prove to himself, maybe, that getting on with his life was a possibility. He didn’t know. Alcohol was probably affecting his judgement, but what the hell. It wasn’t like he was wanted elsewhere.

Bucky put the shot glass down, gently, with exaggerated caution.

Maybe it was that he really couldn’t bring himself to care; flirting had never been so easy. He got the girl’s name, Kate, and that she worked for an ophthalmic assistant, and that she was pretty good at throwing darts. Bucky made a joke about buying her cheese fries instead of a drink, since she obviously had a drink already, and that got him in the door. They joked over the fries; he bought her a glass of terrible wine anyway and got to listen to her analysis of the bar’s house red.

It wasn’t until Kate put her hand over his wrist and looked, very deliberately, up his arm until she reached his face and gave him a smile like pouring molasses that he realized what he was doing.

Bucky was _getting somewhere_ with her.    

He could really do this; take someone else home and lose himself in someone else’s body. Put his mouth, his hands, on someone else. Complete the chain of events that started and _move on with his life_. Not forget, no, he’d never forget, but he could take the first few steps into a post-Tony world. Ice dropped into his stomach, freezing his guts.

It shouldn’t have been such a momentous thing; he’d only been with Tony for a little over three months. And yet, the idea… he couldn’t take her home. He _couldn’t_ do it.

Kate was observant; her fingers stopped moving the instant Bucky realized. “You’re not into it, are you, handsome?”

Guilt, remorse, chagrin, and then, more than anything else, _relief_. “It’s not you,” Bucky said, hastily.

Kate chuckled. “Not like I haven’t heard that before,” she said.

“No, seriously,” Bucky scrambled. It wasn’t her, it wasn’t her fault, she shouldn’t have to feel bad because Bucky was an idiot. “I… look, I got dumped recently. I thought… thought I was ready to move on. I ain’t. S’got nothing to do with you at all. You seem really nice, an’ I’m sorry--”

“And you should be,” Kate said. “You’ve set this new, impossible standard for barboys to meet. Congrats on that, not like I wasn’t already picky as hell.”

“I’m--”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “If you’re not ready, you’re not. And for the record, whoever she is, she’s dumb as hell.” She gave him a little lopsided smile. “If you need to make things look good for your guy friends, I’m ready to call it a night and I’ll share a cab with you.”

If it was anyone, if it could have been anyone else, it would have been her. Bucky gave her as much of a smile as he could muster. “I’m good,” Bucky said.

“All right,” Kate said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a pen. She scribbled a number down on a napkin in brilliant purple ink. “If you decide to get over it, give me a call.”

Bucky stared at the napkin, then folded it and stuck it in his pocket. He knew he wouldn’t call; she knew it, too. But the little gesture meant something to him. It wasn’t today. He wasn’t going to get over Tony today. But maybe someday…

Kate kissed his cheek, leaving behind a smear of lipstick, and then headed out. Bucky waited a few more minutes, then stood.

Maximoff had found some girl and was chatting her up at the bar, one hand on an expanse of pale thigh revealed by a slit in her dress. Quill, on the other hand, was watching the TV over the bar and doing bad lip-reading. Bucky came up beside him and climbed onto the stool.

“Struck out, man?”

“Nah,” Bucky said. “Scored digits, but…” He didn’t know how to explain to someone that he was too goddamn in love with Tony Stark to even think of taking a stranger to bed for some meaningless sex. Because sex was never going to be meaningless. It was going to be something else, entirely, fraught with joy, laced with tenderness, spiced by laughter. He wasn’t going to find that again, and he wasn’t sure how to start looking for someone else.

Didn’t matter, Quill had gone back to the television, amusing himself by giving the news anchor a high-pitched, snotty New Jersey accent. “And in today’s news, I fired my hairdresser for giving me such a lousy cut, and really, I look like I fell face-first on a giant fork to give myself these highlights. Talk about your three-tailed skunk-do. It’s a real stinker and… Stark family killed in wrong-way car accident…”

“Not funny, Quill,” Bucky said.

“Howard Stark, founder of Stark Industries, was confirmed dead after suffering massive internal injuries--” Quill continued.

“Peter, knock it off,” Bucky said, shoving him off his bar stool.

“Bucky, I am not kidding!” Quill reached out, grabbed Bucky’s jaw and turned his face to the television.

The clips, a car smashed to bits in floodlights; bodies covered on the side of the road… a business picture of Howard, younger than he was when Bucky’d seen him. The news anchor was talking, but the bar was too loud, Bucky couldn’t hear anything. Three bodies, and _he knew that goddamn car_ , he’d watched Maria Stark present it to Howard as a Christmas present.

“What…” Bucky’s stomach retreated to his feet, his heart crawled up into his throat, making it impossible to speak.

Industry leader and family dead… wrong way accident… alcohol use suspected… the other vehicle fled the scene… wanted for questioning…

“... no.”

***

Tony Stark had been dead for two days before anyone bothered to tell him that.

A few days of spring break with Jan had done him wonders. The Van Dynes had a small lakefront cabin in the Adirondacks, fully winterized which was good, because even late April wasn’t exactly spring weather in upstate New York. But it was far off the beaten path and no one knew where he was. He hadn’t exactly decided to inform his parents what he was doing.

Howard was going to be a bitch, that was a thing that was going to happen and Tony didn’t feel like dealing with it. Jan stayed with him for spring break, and then another week after, because she was almost as smart as Tony and she had an attitude that was twice as tall. She could make up the work. But they’d both decided he’d be better off taking a medical withdrawal for the semester. She’d filed the paperwork with him, and then kissed him goodbye.

“I’ll come back on weekends, when I can,” she said.

So, Tony took time. The internet out in the middle of nowhere was spotty at best. He read books from the ancient collection in the tiny den, old stuff that he’d always meant to read and never found the time. Vernon Van Dyne was apparently a golden-age of science fiction fan, because there were hardback copies of Asimov and Heinlein, as well as collections of ratty paperbacks from Jules Verne. He spent a cozy afternoon curled up with Mary Shelley’s _Frankenstein_.

He was just fixing himself a pot of coffee and preparing to delve into the Ursula K. LeGuin novels when someone banged on the door.

That in itself wasn’t too unusual; Tony had been using a grocery delivery service (he got his orders out by walking to the edge of the property and texting them to the store, which was the least human involvement he could manage and continue to eat) and sometimes the delivery person knocked before dropping off the box and fucking off.

But this person didn’t just wander off. There was a brief pause, and then they banged again. What? Did someone expect a tip?

When he opened the door to a pair of cops -- two women -- Tony thought it was a joke. Admittedly, a joke in poor taste, but what the hell, even?

“Anthony Edward Stark?”

“Yeah?” Tony asked. “What’s this about?”

“May we come in, Mr. Stark?”

There was a somberness to their demeanor that had Tony on edge. “What’s this about?”

“Please, sir,” the one officer said. Tony checked the man’s nametag. Officer Simmons.

“Can I see your identification?” Tony asked. He’d seen enough cop badges in his life, although he probably wouldn’t recognize a good forgery. It wouldn’t have been the first time some of his friends had sent him strippers disguised as cops. And these women were pretty, although their hairstyles were a lot more severe and the uniforms not even remotely sexy.

Tony studied Officer Simmons’s badge for a while before returning it to her and stepping backward into the cabin. “This is my friend’s place,” he said, “so if there’s something to do with the property, I can get her on the phone for you.”

“No, sir,” the other woman said, Officer Johnson. “We’ve been looking for you for a few days now.”

Tony blinked. Of course. Howard had finally gotten the news that Tony was cutting out the semester and decided to be an ass about it. He opened his mouth to say something and was cut off by Officer Simmons.

“I’m very sorry to tell you, Mr. Stark, but your parents have been killed in a car crash,” she said. “Your father, Howard Stark, was dead before paramedics arrived on the scene. Your mother died some time later, en route to the hospital. A third person, as yet unidentified, was dead on the scene. With nothing to identify that body, it was initially thought that was you, sir. Further --”

She might have continued talking. Tony didn’t know.

What?

What?

His father was… how… Tony stared up at the police officers, not sure how they’d gotten so far above him, but --

“Come on,” Officer Johnson said. She pulled Tony to his feet and helped him stagger over to a chair before letting his legs go out from under him again.

“What happened?” Someone asked that, and it must have been Tony, because there wasn’t anyone else in the room to ask.

“They were in a head-on collision with another car. That car fled the scene after driving down the wrong side of the interstate. We’re continuing to look for the driver. Your father managed to get out of the car and waved down another car for assistance, but he was already bleeding out. He died before paramedics could make it to the scene.”

“We’ll need you to come with us, sir,” Officer Simmons said. “Your parents bodies were identified by documentation and a friend of the family, Obadiah Stane, but it’s best if you confirm positive ID, and perhaps on the third person, who remains unknown.”

Yes, yes, of course, officially. Tony reached for calm and couldn’t find it. He found numbness instead.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Officer Johnson said.

“Yes, of course,” Tony repeated. There was nothing else to say. Not to these police officers.

And there was nothing he could say; not to his parents, who would never hear him again. Who would never understand, and he could never say goodbye, and he could never say he was sorry. That he hadn’t been the son Howard wanted. That he…

He blinked and wiped at his cheeks, not sure if he was going to find tears or not. He was cold. God, he was cold.

He went through the whole ordeal, as Jan would have called it, wrapped in numbness like a blanket. He was cold. No one touched him. He didn’t reach for anyone. He sat in the front seat of Simmons’s patrol car and tried not to think, just watching the scenery out the window.

He stood in the too-cold air of the morgue and let them pull his parents out. Their skin was somewhat gray, motionless. His mother’s hair was messy. She wouldn’t have liked that. He couldn’t quite bring himself to touch it, to shape the loose hair back into curls and twists that she liked to wear.

Howard looked like Howard, still. Strong chin and hard expressions. There was no softness that death had left in him. Sheets covered them to their collarbones, but Tony could see the red marks and stitches where autopsies had been conducted.

He didn’t know the other man; and he could see how that person would have been mistaken for Tony. The guy had a serious case of road rash. Half his face was gone in a rough mask of tears and blood, the rest of it swollen and bruised. Dark hair. The ruined remains of a mustache.

Tony left the precinct. Officer Johnson offered to call him an Uber, but Tony just brushed her off, walking like he couldn’t hear anything she said. Maybe he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure. He was so cold, dammit. Wasn’t it spring, wasn’t it supposed to be warmer?

He wasn’t aware of time passing. Tony was probably lucky he hadn’t come across any enterprising pick pockets; he was totally unconcerned with his environment as he made his way back to the mansion from the precinct.

The doorknob didn’t turn under his hand, and he didn’t have his key. It was strange, ringing the bell. Stranger still, how very long it took for someone to answer the door. Or maybe it wasn’t. What was going to happen to the servants, to the house, to anything, now that his parents were gone. Well, of course, everything was Tony’s now. A small, petty, and growing louder part of him was shoving at it with both hands. _Don’t want it. Won’t take it. You can’t make me._

“Sir!”

“Jarvis,” Tony said. He took a step forward and found himself locked in a fierce hug.

“Oh, thank God, you’re home, sir,” Jarvis said, petting Tony’s back.

“Pack it up,” Tony said, extracting himself from the embrace.

“Sir?” God, Jarvis needed to stop that; _Howard_ was Sir.

“Pack it up, shut it down. Find me a condo or something in Boston. I’m not staying here,” Tony said. He wasn’t going back to school until the next semester, but fuck if he was staying here, in this empty, terrible place. There was no one to ask anymore, but no one to lie to, either. Tony hated this place, every centimeter of it. If he never saw this building again, it would be too soon. “We’ll look into selling the place later. For now, just get my shit and get me back to Boston.”

Jarvis looked like he might protest but he glanced at Tony’s face and simply said, “Of course, sir. Would you like to drive, or should I call Happy?”

Tony didn’t want to drive. He also wasn’t sure he wanted a driver, but there were only two choices, since no one had invented teleporters yet, and really, someone should get on that. Maybe it should be him, but he didn’t really have the time for it right now, and if someone was going to get around to time machines, than the when didn’t really matter, did it?

“Happy can drive me,” Tony said.

“Um, sir?”

“Yes, Jarvis?”

“What about the company?”

“Ug. Get me a lawyer and talk to Obie. He can run it for me, at least until I’m done with school.” Obie would enjoy that, Tony thought. “They can draw up whatever powers of attorney seems reasonable.”

“Sir--”

“No. _No_ , Jarvis. I’m not going to fucking deal with it right now. Get me back to Boston. I’ll deal with funeral arrangements and shit later. We have people for that, find someone to make arrangements. Dad would want something huge, there’s a lot of people who will want to pay their respects, it’ll take time to get it planned. And I’m _not staying here_. So, goddamnit, cut me some fucking slack and _get it done._ ”

Tony was ensconced in the car, Happy driving them down the interstate, before it occurred to Tony that he didn’t have anyplace to go.

_I understand why you had to go. Don’t let pride keep you from coming back._

Right. He gave Happy the address and then snuggled back into the seat and wished the world away.

***

He shouldn’t do this to himself.

No one would think this obsessive behavior was healthy. No one. Not even his sister, which is why Bucky had locked his bedroom door and not come out for at least forty hours. He’d pulled the dresser in front of the door, because he knew Tash and she was one hundred percent capable of picking the lock. If she got really determined, she could probably bully the door open even when the dresser was in the way, come down to it, but Bucky was ignoring that. The dresser was just an extra layer of lock. It said don’t fucking bother me.

He sent one text.

_Just tell me that wasn’t you._

He didn’t get a reply. Bucky didn’t expect to.

But no one had specifically said; the body hadn’t been positively identified. Everything that Bucky could dig up on the web, and it wasn’t much because no one in the press cared about Howard Stark’s son, the twenty-two year old nerd who went to school at MIT. Everyone cared about society matron Maria Stark and her dozens of charity functions. Everyone cared about Howard Stark, weapons manufacturer, brilliant futurist, wealthy industrialist.

Bucky kept digging.

Kept seeing the pictures of the crash. Howard’s car, crushed and crumpled. Blood on the road. Bodies laid out on the side of the road; Maria on her way to the hospital where she would die without ever regaining consciousness.

He couldn’t cry.

Bucky was counting that as a good thing; crying made it real. As long as there weren’t any tears, he could live in the world where Schrodinger's cat was still alive.

Someone knocked on the door.

Bucky sighed. He looked over at the dresser. Fuck it.

They knocked again.

“For fuck’s sake,” Bucky muttered. It really probably wasn’t worth getting out from under the tangle of blankets, crossing the room, shoving his dresser out of the way, unlocking the door, and going to check the front door. Even the most determined Jehovah’s Witness wasn’t going to wait that long.

_Bang! Bang!_

Bucky sighed and yanked the blankets over his head.

Some time passed without further knocking. That was good. Of course, now Bucky was aware that it had been a while since he’d gotten up, moved, stretched, gone to the bathroom. His mouth was sticky and sour. He was faintly conscious that he didn’t smell particularly good. Stale sweat and oily hair.

 _Fuck_.

Bucky shoved a hand through his hair and grimaced. Yeah, well past time to change the oil, so to speak.

He got up and shoved the dresser out of the way. It took longer and more effort than it should have. Maybe he should eat. The news would still be there after he had a meal.

Bucky didn’t shower so much as he stood in the stream of too hot water and wished he could just drown. He made some sort of effort to work shampoo through his hair and decided the run off was enough for washing. No one cared what he looked like, as long as he wasn’t putting on the murder hobo look, something that Tash had called him before.

He didn’t bother to do more than pull on a pair of sweats before raiding the kitchen.

That was disappointing. Once again, his sister had eaten every fucking thing in the house. There was a bottle of ketchup, a rind of cheese that was more mold than dairy-product, and a tupperware containing an alien life form. There weren’t even any packs of noodles. Honestly, there were days when Bucky thought Tash was throwing food out rather than eating it, just to be fucking annoying.

Ug.

Bucky grabbed a tee and stuffed his feet into a pair of old sneakers. Grabbed his wallet. A glance at the window told him it was raining.

Fuck…

Found a baseball cap and snagged his old army jacket. It would do for a quick hike down to the corner bodega.

Opened the door.

And nearly tripped over someone sitting in his doorway, arms wrapped around his chest, curved as close to the building as possible to get away from the rain.

“... Tony?”

“Bucky.” Tony scrambled to his feet. He was soaking wet and shivering. “Look, I am so, so sorry about what happened, I… god, I just… I’m sorry. And I know it’s terrible of me to just show up out of nowhere, and I don’t have a good excuse or anything, but I just… I just need someone, Bucky, I’m sorry. Can you ever--”

Bucky didn’t even care what Tony was saying.

“You’re alive.” Bucky reached out one hand, raindrops clinging to his metal hand and dripping down his wrist. He brushed his fingers over Tony’s cheek. “You’re _alive_.”

Tony’s words stumbled to a halt and he stared at Bucky with wide eyes, raindrops clumping his lashes. “Oh, yeah,” he said, and it was with a strange sort of realization. Bucky could almost see everything coming together, like a puzzle picture with a handful of missing pieces. “Yeah. Yes. Yes, I am. I’m… I’m alive.”

He shouldn’t have done it; Bucky _knew_ he shouldn’t. He’d barely _touched_ Tony since the events that had started the downhill slide. But it was too much. Tony was right there, whole and healthy, rainwater beading on his lip, and Bucky drew him in.

He meant it just as a quick touch, a kiss to reassure himself that Tony was real, that he was really there, really alive.

If Tony had pushed him back, shoved him away, or even not responded at all, Bucky would have let go, could have let go. But instead, Toy made a soft, whimpering noise against his mouth and opened to him.

Oh, God.

The stolen kiss wiped Bucky’s mind as blank as a slate, left his mouth tingling and his body heating. He could taste Tony under raindrops and tears, sweet and generous. With each stroke of his tongue, Tony opened further, surrendering everything, giving everything. Tony’s hands came up and pushed Bucky’s cap off, tangling in the wet locks, tugging him. Pulling him closer.

Bucky should have stopped, but whatever Tony was doing with his mouth, with the softness of his sighs, was robbing him of whatever sense Bucky had. He dissolved into the kiss. Bucky could only hold onto Tony, kiss him for dear life.

Finally, finally they pulled apart to breathe, panting against each other.

“Yeah,” Tony said, soft. He brushed his thumb over Bucky’s cheek. “I’m alive.”


	7. (Folding) Paper Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Tony struggle to get over the past and come to terms with their present.
> 
> Surprisingly, Sharon Rogers becomes a friend in deed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given some of the heavy content that this fic has had, and that I believe that re-establishing some control over your sex life after a trauma can be helpful, I decided to go ahead and let our boys have some on-screen sexual healing.
> 
> Pretty much everything after Bucky and Tony leave the Uber vehicle is explicit, so if that's a thing you'd rather skip, stop reading after they get into the apartment.
> 
> I'm not a therapist, I only know what's helped me. If you or someone you know, is suffering from the aftermath of sexual trauma, please seek professional help.

There were too many times in his life, Bucky thought, looking around, that he ended up somewhere without the faintest idea of how he’d gotten there.

To wit; an anniversary party. In further fact, Steve Rogers’ goddamn anniversary party.

When the invitation had arrived in the mail, he hadn’t even thought about it. He’d opened it only because the envelope bore none of the signature looks of pretending-to-be-real-mail that-was-really-an-advertisement.

The card itself was fancy, sparkly and glittery -- and probably nothing that Steve Rogers would ever have picked out for himself -- Bucky’d originally thought meant that this had nothing to do with Steve at all and that Sharon was just going through his address book or something. The card had left a smear of red, blue, and white sparkles on Bucky’s fingers. Glitter really was the herpes of craft supplies and everyone who thought it was awesome should probably have their spleen removed through their ear.

_One Year of Wedded Bliss._

There were two printed photos inside of the card; the engagement photo and one from the wedding. Who the hell had an anniversary party for the first year? Wasn’t that supposed to be like a ten year thing, after you’d actually accomplished something?

He’d turned his attention to the phone bill, which had a fuck-ton of overage charges on it, since Tash had been stupid as hell and forgot to get international minutes on her phone again. He forgot about the invitation until a few days later when Tony was putting some groceries away and came across it on the stack of random shit that seemed to build up on the dining room table all the time.

“He really is determined to rub your face in it,” Tony commented, holding the card up by the corner, like it was contaminated.

One of the photos, along with a cascade of glitter, slid to the floor. On the back was a familiar swirl of writing. Bucky dropped into a squat and picked up the photo. Fronted by the engagement picture, there was a personal note from Steve.

_I know I treated you badly. Miss being friends. I hope you can forgive me. Please, do come to the party? -S_

“You know,” Tony said, leaning over Bucky’s shoulder and running a hand through his hair, “the best revenge is to live well.”

Bucky sighed, tapping the photo against his chin. “You think I should go?”

“I think you should let it go, baby,” Tony said. “Is it worth getting tense about?”

“It’s not,” Bucky said. That much was true; he’d barely given Steve Rogers a thought in the last few months. It was hard to believe that this time last year he was mourning the man and his lying mouth.

“Do you miss him?”

Bucky was appalled at the question. “No, Tony,” he said. “No, I… I love you.” In case Tony had somehow forgotten that, which given that Bucky probably told him four times a day at the very minimum, probably wasn’t likely.

“I don’t mean as your lover,” Tony said. He kissed Bucky’s hair and then messed it up. “I mean your friend. The one you’ve known your whole life. Do you miss that Steve Rogers? You guys have had time to get past a real bad situation. I’m just saying, you’re both moving on with your lives. There’s no reason to not give it a try, see if you can just be friends again. Real friends, they’re pretty rare.”

Bucky winced. Tony had good reason to know; between the rumors and gossip and victim blaming that Tony had been through about Rumlow, followed by the death of his parents and Tony’s inheriting a sizable fortune, there were a lot of people who were either holding out a hand, or waving a fist in his direction. Tony would know a scarcity of friends the likes of which Bucky might never understand.

Which was, Bucky supposed, how he’d ended up going to the party.

 

* * *

 

There was something deeply satisfying about solving a problem, Tony thought. He stared into the bottom of his glass and tried to decide if this made him a bad person. Because to be quite honest, he’d pushed and nagged and dropped hints until Bucky had RSVP’d to Steve’s anniversary party.

Not because he really thought that Bucky had to get over Steve. There were ex’s of Tony’s that he might never get over, certainly not enough to want to spend time in the same room, and then there were the whole list of one night stands that he didn’t really remember. He could chat up someone he’d already been with -- and had, on at least one occasion -- and not realize it. Closure was fucking overrated.

Closure was impossible to get; it was the glorious (and wrongheaded) idea that there were lessons to be learned from a relationship ending. There weren’t. People were biological constructs, driven by hormones and learned behavior and a mess of emotions; they weren’t like machines. Machines broke for a reason and they could either be fixed, or they could be scrapped. Biology wasn’t chemistry; people did stupid shit for reasons that never made sense.

Bucky was never going to get an answer that satisfied; Steve left him because Steve was a jerk. Because Sharon was beautiful. Because Bucky wasn’t enough or because he was too much. Or because Mercury was in the seventh house. It didn’t, in the end, matter at all. What mattered was that it had happened, and that Bucky either needed to put it behind him, or he needed to admit that the idea behind closure was clinging to a thing in order to not have to let it go and finally be over.

And, Tony had to admit, it wasn’t just for Bucky’s peace of mind that Tony was pushing.

Theory was one thing, and lab was a controlled environment. Tony wanted to field test.

Closure wasn’t necessary.

Some shit you could just get over.

Tony wanted to stop waking up in the middle of the night, unable to breathe. He wanted his boyfriend to be able to pour him a glass of Coke and not freak out, not dump it in the sink and open his own, fresh bottle, even though he knew it like he knew how to calculate the speed an object was moving away from a light source based on red shift that Bucky would never, ever hurt him. He wanted to see; was it the truth? Was time the only thing that healed wounds?

Would there ever be a time that he could be at a party again and not cringe and hide in the corner with his back to a wall and watch everyone.

He missed that part of himself. The part that could relax with a group of people, that could joke around with someone he’d just met. Flirt and drink and dance and not want to hide under the table.

It wasn’t like Rumlow had altered his base personality; Tony was still an extrovert. He didn’t get recharged spending time alone. Being by himself, or with one or two people he knew just made him exhausted and bored, like a phone left sitting out, not using it didn’t keep him from draining his battery.

“Hey, Tony,” a soft voice said near him. Tony turned and found Sharon Rogers nearby, her pale eyes wide with sympathy. “Thanks for coming, with everything that happened.”

For just an instant, Tony was sure that she was referring to Rumlow, and his lip curled up in a snarl, because what the fuck, even. And then he was reminded that most of the world only knew that his parents had died.

That. That there always got to him; he was so damn selfish and self-centered that his personal turmoil kept taking precedence above the things that should have been more important.

“Yeah, thanks,” Tony managed, roughly. He threw back the rest of his drink, a few swallows of a not-particularly-good chianti. “It’s been a tough time.” Wasn’t that the fucking truth? Sometimes Tony wondered if it was possible just to feel a single emotion at a time, and what he wouldn’t give for that. Just a little slice of heaven. Even if what he felt was grief, simple and unadulterated. Anger, untainted by remorse, regret, self-loathing. Love, unfettered by things like shame and despair and jealousy.

It seemed these days, alcoholic cocktails weren’t the only thing he was force feeding himself. He was glutting himself on a steady diet of wormwood and gall.

Sharon put a hand on his wrist and Tony forced himself to look up at her; it was harder than it should have been, meeting someone’s gaze. “Thanks for bringing him. I know it had to be you, Bucky’s been ignoring Steve pretty steadily.”

 _Well, gee, I wonder why that is._ “Sometimes people grow apart,” Tony said, philosophically. “That’s no one’s fault, it just happens.” The bottom of his glass looked oddly lonely, the stem lined by a few droplets of wine that didn’t quite meet.

Sharon chuckled, low. “I have better wine than that, if you want another glass,” she offered.

“Yes, please,” Tony said, not sure if he meant more wine, or better wine, but either would be good. “Tell me, how’d you and Steve meet? I know about him and Bucky.” Inwardly, Tony flinched. He hadn’t meant to say that much, he still didn’t know how much Sharon knew about Steve and his ex-lover.

To his surprise, Sharon blushed. “It’s a bit of a story, and I come off sounding like a crazy person,” she confessed. “Stalkery and stuff. It’s awful. If it didn’t have a happy ending, I… yeah, let me get you a glass of wine and me a few of them.”

“So,” she said, once she’d achieved wine; snatching the entire bottle and stealing Tony away to the veranda. They found a dark corner, away from the press and noise of the party, and Tony kinda liked that. He could look in the window and see the light and people without having to feel like he was part of the crush, or had a spotlight on his face and feelings. “Couple years back, I have an argument with my roommate; like a bad one. She and I have been living together for several years -- since freshman year of college -- at this point, but it’s just not working out anymore, and I need a new place to go.”

Tony made a scoffing sound in his throat. This really was a much better wine than the general consumption stuff that Sharon had put out. He could see living with Rhodey for years, that would have been good, but on the other hand, he couldn’t imagine living with Justin Hammer for any length of time. “Yeah, I’ve had bad roommates before.”

“So, I’m talking with my mom about it, and she mentions that one of her friends from work has a place for rent, and the price is… wow, so good,” Sharon said. “So, I go out to look at it, but I’m really dubious; I mean, it’s only a hundred dollars more than what I’m paying for half the rent with my roommate? How is that even possible, like, without being some real dump. But it’s not, it’s nice. Open space, just a single room, but you know, kitchenette and it’s not like anyone entertains around here.”

“Let me guess, there’s a secret gate to hell in the basement,” Tony joked.

“You’d think, right? So I’m poking around and asking questions. You know, it’s one of those converted homes, bunch of rooms that have been walled off to make apartments. There’s like three other people who live on that floor. And there’s two bathrooms, so each side of the building shares a jack-and-jill. And in my case, it was a literal Jack and Jill, because my would-be neighbor? Was Steve.”

Tony laughed. That was right out of a bad porno, or some terrible rom-com movie. “So, you walked in on him?”

“Eventually,” she said, laughing. “See, the thing was, my neighbor was military and while he had a permanent home, he was stationed overseas, so for months, I had the bathroom to myself, I didn’t even worry about it or anything. Just did my thing, it was great. The rent was great, the location was pretty good, and I didn’t have a roommate at all. Lemme tell you something, if you can manage it, living alone is one of the best things in the freaking world.”

Tony managed to nod, but rather fervently disagreed. He’d been alone at Jan’s lake house and if he never spent another night without a human being within arm’s reach, it’d be too soon. The nightmares still bothered him, but Bucky being right there, to wake him, was the best thing ever. Having warm, comforting arms to chase the monsters away. He certainly wasn’t going to go back to the mansion and live there by himself. That was never happening, and honestly, if they could sell the fucking thing, Tony would be just as happy to break it up into a few dozen “luxury” apartments.

“So, there’s this bar, you know, right down from my place, and I go there after work, quite a lot. And one night, there’s a guy, sitting there, just sort of moody staring at his drink, and I flirt with him.”

“Steve?”

“Steve. My neighbor, Steve, as a matter of fact, but I didn’t know that, at the time.”

“And you picked him up,” Tony continued. “And he took you back to his place?”

“No, as a matter of fact, we ended up going to a hotel,” Sharon continued. “And this goes on for weeks, he and I having this affair, and he’s apparently got a thing about not bringing anyone back to his place, and once he said that, I couldn’t see bringing him back to my place. So, hotels. Which was kinda nice and romantic, and had the fun of not having to clean up or change my own bedsheets, you know, or dealing with my cat, who likes to attack toes. And by this time, I know my neighbor’s back, because sometimes I’m locked out of the bathroom, but I haven’t seen them. They’re very neat and clean; take all their shower junk in and out of the bathroom with them, every time. I start feeling guilty about being a slob.”

Heh. Yeah, Tony knew how that went, too. Sometimes he thought that living situations delved into the lowest common denominator, but sometimes you could end up in a sort of competitive cleaning situation. He and Nat and Bucky’s roommating was a little like that. Nat would passive-aggressively clean. _Pointedly_. Which made Bucky sigh and get up to do the damn dishes. So far, Tony had resisted being guilted into doing anything extra, but he imagined it was only a matter of time.

“And one night, I hear sex noises coming from the apartment next door,” Sharon said, “which is fine, whatever, people do have sex, that’s great, my across-the-way neighbor has been fine, I got no room to complain, right?”

“Except you finally see Steve, coming out of his place?”

“You are absolutely correct.”

“I don’t see how this makes you a stalker,” Tony prompted.

“Well, he didn’t see _me_ ,” she said, blushing. “And I admit, we’d never said we were exclusive or anything, but… I felt kinda hurt, especially since -- well, since I thought he was having sex with my neighbor, and that… I don’t know. It’s not like he knew where I lived. But like he was doing it to hurt me. And I was mad at my neighbor, too, all sight unseen. I started… rather aggressively leaving the bathroom a mess. Clogged the toilet a few times. You know, petty, stupid stuff. I’m not proud of it.”

“Oh, god, poor guy,” Tony said, hiding his face behind his hands and laughing. “Were you still seeing him, all during this?”

Sharon laughed, poured another glass of wine. “Yeah, we were. Awful, right? Like, seriously, I’m a terrible person.”

“So, how’d it come to a head?”

“Oh, it was all my fault,” she said. “I borked the drains up bad enough that the washer stopped being able to drain in my place, and I had a basket and I went to one of my other neighbors, across the hall, and I told her that my washer wasn’t working, and could I possibly borrow hers, just for a load, and the landlord had said that they’d get to it after the weekend. And Steve overheard me, stopped and listened. Then he walked by and cool as you please, just said ‘hey, neighbor,’ and went into his place. I might not even have known he was mad, except he slammed the door.”

“Oh, lord.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “And, as it turned out, he’d _just_ broken things off with the other person he was seeing, because he was going to ask me to be exclusive with him, and then, he finds out what a terrible, crazy person I am? Oh, lord, is right. It was a _total mess_.”

“But it all worked out, right?”

“Well, we really did need to work on our communication skills, but yeah, we worked it out, eventually,” Sharon said.

“And she never does the laundry anymore,” Steve said, coming up behind them. “I don’t trust her around the drains.”

Sharon reached out and smacked his leg. “Oh, you!” and tipped her head back to demand a kiss.

They did look good together, Tony had to admit. Pretty and happy and just the right height difference.

“Well, thanks for the story,” Tony said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll let you two lovebirds take the dark and secluded corner, then.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. “Bucky’s over by the piano. I think Sam was trying to convince him to play.”

Tony made a face. “I didn’t know he could,” Tony said.

Steve shrugged. “There’s a lot to learn about Bucky.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You know I didn’t know, right?”

Bucky had been flipping through the wedding album; one of the bridesmaids had made a scrapbook for them as a gift and it had been left out on one of the buffet tables. As far as Bucky could tell, scrapbooking was a hobby for grown-assed women who never quite gave up their habit of collecting stickers and fancy scissors. At first he thought just making fun of the decorations would make it easier than looking at the actual pictures.

But it really wasn’t as hard as he thought it was going to be. Steve looked… happy.

“Didn’t know what?” Bucky though, perhaps, he could fill a whole encyclopedia with things Steve Rogers didn’t know.

“I didn’t know how you felt,” Steve said. “Not ‘til--” He waved a hand, and Bucky filled in the rest. Not until Bucky had told him, practically giddy with joy after that last time they’d had sex. They hadn’t even made it up the stairs to Bucky’s place, instead risked a quick and dirty on the back stoop, jerking each other off on the porch.

“Didn’t you?” Bucky asked. He wasn’t sure that could be true; he’d loved Steve for years. How the hell had Steve missed it? Deliberate blindness, that had to be it.

“I really didn’t, Buck,” Steve said. “Lookin’ back on it, yeah, I could see, but. I didn’t let myself think about that.”

Bucky considered that. Maybe he hadn’t known. Bucky certainly hadn’t been trying to hide it. But he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t acted on it. Let Steve come to him, in his own sweet damn time. Longer than Bucky had held out any hope. Honestly, he’d kinda forgotten about it, over time. He still admired Steve, really, but it wasn’t until Steve was flirting at the Red Room had it rekindled from a wistful, childish crush into anything worth pursuing. “Would it have made a difference?”

“Huh?”

“If you’d know how I felt,” Bucky clarified. “Would it have changed anything?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve said, emphatic. “Buck, if I’d known you felt… like that. I wouldn’t have --”

And maybe that was exactly the right thing to say. Bucky took a deep breath. “You wouldn’t have taken me up on an offer if you’d known I was going to get attached?”

“I never meant to hurt you. But I love Sharon, I do.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

“I know that,” Steve said, hanging his head a little, scuffing his feet on the carpet. “And I’m sorry. Missed bein’ friends, Buck.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “That might take a little more time.”

“Practice,” is what Steve said, and Bucky stared at him. “It’ll take practice. Like, remember that mustard gas exercise?”

“God, don’t remind me, that shit sucked,” Bucky said. Training for urban warfare had been buckets of not fun. The first time they’d done the gas excercise, only two of their platoon had gotten into the gear in time, and the rest of them had been covered in hives and puking their guts up. But weeks later, it didn’t even matter, sometimes, if you got your gas mask on in time or not. You’d developed some sort of resistance to the toxins. It still sucked, but it didn’t make you sick anymore.

“Us, being friends,” Steve said, “might be helped along if we saw each other more than once every six months.”

Bucky bit at his bottom lip, considering it. Truly, maybe, he could get immune to Steve. If might hurt less, or at least, he’d get used to the hurt. And it wasn’t… it wasn’t like he was in love with Steve, not anymore. What hurt was the rejection, that Steve had taken Bucky’s love and tossed it aside like it meant nothing. And what Steve was telling him was that it hadn’t meant nothing, it was just… not what Steve needed. Maybe he could live with that.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, slow. “Maybe we can double, or something. Tony and I… well, he’s easing back into a social life.”

“As he’s spent the last half hour outside with my wife, maybe they can… help us?”

“Run interference?”

“Something like that,” Steve said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I really have missed you.”

Bucky took a deep breath. If he had to be honest, there was still a nasty little part of him that wanted Steve to be in pain. To lose everything and realize that Bucky… but what the hell was the point of that? Bucky had Tony now, had someone who was giving everything for Bucky, someone who he loved… it’s not like Bucky wanted Steve back. Not anymore.

“Okay,” Bucky said. “Email me, we’ll figure something out.”

 

* * *

 

Their Uber driver took one look at the two of them hanging all over each other as they staggered out of the party and snorted. “Keep it in your pants and I won’t video-tape you,” she said. “But I’ll have you know that my side job includes getting paid to film amatuer porn, so if you want to be on RedTube, go right ahead. There’s a pretty high market value for it.”

Which hadn’t damped down Tony’s enthusiasm at all, but Bucky turned as red as a fire-hydrant, so Tony decided to keep his hands to himself.

Mostly.

Okay, so he was _totally_ lying.

Turned out that Bucky had known how to play piano, which was sexy as hell. Especially since he wasn’t playing stupid shit like Chopin or Vivaldi, but actually got quite a lot of attention playing bodacious boogie-woogie and a few more modern pieces. When he’d done _Teeth_ by Lady GaGa, the whole party had stopped to listen.

So, that had been totally hot. And then there’d been some more wine and a bit of dancing, which had been really hot. Followed immediately by Bucky dragging Tony into a dark corner to kiss him stupid.

All of which meant that Tony was coming down off a wine-buzz and had a handful of boyfriend. Who had been drinking a bit himself, which meant that, for a change, he was actually kissing Tony. And touching him.

Tony’d almost forgotten how much he missed that.

 _Stupid_ , he knew. The first few weeks, after the Mardi Gras party, Tony had been flinching every time someone touched him. He knew that what Bucky was doing was trying to give Tony his space, was trying desperately hard not to trigger him, or whatever it was that Bucky was doing.

Which was great, it was fine, Tony appreciated it.

Except now, he was starting to feel a little turned on, a little horny, and Bucky was… not picking up on it. He wasn’t touching. Was making Tony do all the work to instigate, and he wasn’t _responding_ to any of it. All of which was leading to Tony feeling… rejected.

Every time Bucky didn’t respond to him, or shifted away from him on the bed, every time he heard Bucky jerking it in the shower rather than claiming an armful of exceptionally willing boyfriend, made it that much harder for Tony to reach out the next time.

The last two weeks, he hadn’t reached out at all, and he was fucking miserable. What’s worse, Tony didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t want to argue about having sex. He didn’t want to explain about it, and he certainly didn’t want to feel like he was pressuring _Bucky_ into sex, because oh my fucking god, no.

And maybe Bucky had a little too much to drink at Steve’s party. Which had loosened up his vigilance. Maybe that was wrong of Tony to press the advantage, just a little bit. _God damn it_. Tony sighed, crossed his arms over his chest.  

“Hey,” Bucky said, leaning against him a little. “You okay, baby?”

“Always,” Tony said, then sighed again, exasperated with himself for fronting, because he wasn’t okay, he was a long goddamn way from okay, but he didn’t know how to fix it. Machines were easy. Engineering was easy. Hitting Mars across a couple of years and several million miles, piece of cake as long as your math was good. Figuring out people? Was a fucking mystery. “Not sure I am, actually.”

“What can I do?”

Tony loved him even more for that, if that was even possible. Bucky was always right there, ready and willing. “Do you love me?”

Such a stupid thing to say; it was cruel, it was needy, it was fishing for a fucking compliment, but… Tony just really needed to know.

“More than anything,” Bucky said, easily, like it wasn’t even a question, like he didn’t even have to think about it. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was the first thing on his mind, the way it was with Tony. Tony wouldn’t know, he’d never been very good at people. He shifted a bit, trying to figure it out. Not like Bucky could prove it. Emotions didn’t apply to mathematical proofs. Couldn’t write down an equation and have it balance out nicely.

Bucky turned his head to press his lips against Tony’s temple just at the same time that Tony shifted to say something and instead of catching Tony in a safe location, Bucky’s mouth landed on Tony’s. Which Tony was not above taking advantage of. He wrapped one hand around the back of Bucky’s neck and kissed him. They’d been in the damn Uber for at least twenty minutes, Bucky was mostly sober now, right? Right.

Frozen for just a moment, almost long enough for Tony to let go and back off again, belly squeezing painfully, and then Bucky reacted. Like someone touched a match to gasoline, Bucky was kissing him back.

For just a moment, Bucky pushed Tony away. “Are you --” and then he stopped and looked, really looked at Tony, like he hadn’t actually seen him for days, despite the fact that they were mostly together almost all the time. There was something heartbreaking and pure in the way that Bucky was looking at him, as if he might die if he couldn’t kiss Tony. _Finally. Fucking finally._ Tony exhaled a great sigh of relief.

“Please,” Tony said, not even asking, just… wanting.

Bucky ran his thumb over Tony’s jaw, gentle. Leaned forward. Their breath mingled between them, the air grew hot and heavy with need. Bucky was shaking, and honestly, Tony wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t.

Tony’s lips touched Bucky’s, soft and gentle and sweet, even though how he felt wasn’t any of those things, except that at the same time, it somehow _was_. There was something in the friction between them, in the way he could hear Bucky’s heartbeat and feel his breath as a whisper against his cheek. Tony flicked his tongue over Bucky’s lower lip, teasing until Bucky parted his mouth with an earthy gasp. Tony’s tongue dipped in, tasted and explored, as if he were remapping the territory.

His hand on Bucky’s neck slid into Bucky’s hair, pulling him closer, yanking him in as if he couldn’t bear to be parted, even a centimeter. The other hand slid upward on Bucky’s thigh, fingertips stretching toward the vee between his legs. He could feel the heat of Bucky’s skin through the fabric and it raced up Tony’s arm like wildfire, setting every nerve ablaze.

Bucky’s mouth grew more insistent, tongue sliding in, dueling and dancing with Tony’s. He swallowed Tony’s soft, eager moan. Tony wondered if he were still a little drunk, because Bucky’s kiss was making him doubt everything; his ability to form coherent sentences, or stand up, or even breathe. Bucky traced a hand down Tony’s arm, along his side, and then around to splay at the small of Tony’s back. “Oh, god,” Bucky murmured as he pulled apart, just a little, just to pant and breathe and to stare in wonder at Tony.

“Bucky, _Bucky_ ,” Tony said, eager and pushing himself closer into Bucky’s embrace, as if they could literally become one person, noting how sweet and savage Bucky’s name tasted on his mouth. He was ravenous for Bucky, hungry for him, urgent and needy. Drunk on his presence and drugged by his passion.

“All right, all right, get out of my car,” the Uber driver said, rolling her eyes at them expressively in the rearview. “I hate having to get my backseat cleaned.”

Now that Tony had Bucky’s brain (and other, more choice parts of his anatomy) pointed in the right direction, he didn’t want to lose the opportunity. He plucked a few bills from his wallet and threw them at the driver; a couple of twenties and probably a fifty. “Keep it,” he yelled as he shoved Bucky out of the car and toward the door of their apartment.

The two of them practically fell through the door, and that was just fine with Tony, he was damn tired of waiting.

“Come on,” Bucky said, hoarse, whispering in his ear as he broke apart another kiss. “We can’t have sex on the stairs.”

“The hell we can’t,” Tony responded, shivering with sudden anticipation. Thank god, thank god, Bucky had finally clued in, and this really was going to happen and the less time he gave Bucky to think about it and get all uncertain and overly concerned with Tony’s wellbeing, the better.

“No, no, we really can’t,” Bucky protested, but then he went limp with wanting as Tony ran an exploratory hand over the front of his jeans and discovered that Bucky was so into it as to be rock hard. “No lube.” Like he was being imminently reasonable, despite the breathy whine at came out of him. Despite the way he rocked his hips insistently against Tony’s hand.  

“We really can,” Tony said. He dug around in his pocket and slapped a few sample packets of lube and a condom in Bucky’s hand.

“What the hell, Tony?”

“Well, I thought if you were still mad at Steve, after we went to the party, we could go fuck in their bed or something, you know, just for spite. So, I wanted to be prepared.”

Bucky blinked a few times, then cracked up. For a few minutes, all he could do was laugh, supported by the wall, and then he stumbled forward, up a few steps, and collapsed again, giving Tony a really nice view of his well-rounded ass and stunning thighs.

Well, when a target of opportunity presents… Tony made with the grabby hands and took hold of Bucky’s cheeks, giving them a healthy squeeze.

Bucky squeaked in surprise, then groaned as Tony finished the grope, fingers teasing along the seam of his crack and dipping along the inside of his thighs. “Oh, God, Tony,” Bucky gasped, pushing back to rub against Tony’s hand.

“Tell me you want it,” Tony said, leaning close and pressing harder against Bucky, teasing him, tormenting him. Bucky’s answer was another breathy moan and to arch back into Tony’s touch. “Or, you know, I could stop, if--”

“Don’t stop,” Bucky was practically begging. Tony couldn’t see his face, but he knew the expression well enough, the way Bucky bit down on his lip when he was aroused, the way his eyes were half-lidded with want.

“Then tell me,” Tony insisted. He found the tang of Bucky’s zipper and tugged on it, light, but urgently. Bucky rolled over on the step, eyes hot and drew Tony down into a harsh kiss, all tongue and scraping teeth.

“I want it,” Bucky said. He stared at Tony like he wished he had mind-reading skills. “It’s… uh…”

“Been a while, I know,” Tony said. “And I know you’re trying to help me, believe me, I know, but if you… it’s almost as bad, to feel _unwanted_ as it is to feel violated.”

“Baby, I never--”

“I know, I know,” Tony said, brushing it off like it was no big deal. He didn’t want to dwell on it.

“Tony,” Bucky said, absolutely serious, his gray-blue eyes steely in the dim lighting. “There is nothin’ on this planet that I want more than you. Not food or drink or air. You. Just you, baby.”

The stairs weren’t, perhaps, the most comfortable place for a long, slow embrace, but Tony couldn’t remember ever wanting to touch someone so much in his whole life. Not even necessarily sex (although, really, if he didn’t get some soon, he was going to explode) but just because he wanted to touch and stroke and feel Bucky’s body heat. Hear his heart, feel the rhythm of his lungs. Bucky was a tidal pull, and Tony was helpless except to respond to it.

Bucky’s hands were everywhere, on Tony’s shoulders, in his hair, urgent fingers skimming along the sensitive skin of his lower back. Moaning. Kissing Tony’s hair, his forehead, his cheeks, finding his mouth and devouring it. “Tony, Tony, Tony,” he said, punctuating each exclamation with a kiss.

Sprawled under Tony the way he was, it was easier for Tony to get Bucky’s pants unfastened. It didn’t take long before Bucky was helping him, stripping off his shirt and jeans, kicking his shoes into an untidy pile on the floor. Tony folded the jeans quick enough and put them on a stair. “That can’t be comfortable,” he said, grinning around Bucky’s mouth as Bucky kissed him again. “Kneel on that.”

“You really wanna fuck on the stairs?” Bucky asked, although he didn’t seem particularly adverse to the idea, and was, in fact, getting Tony divested of his clothing as fast as humanly possible, hands exploring each inch of exposed skin. The heat of his human hand was an interesting, devilish contrast to the chill of the metal one, but both of them flexed and danced over Tony’s skin with need and desire and both were driving Tony absolutely wild with need.

“Bet your ass I do,” Tony said. “Roll over.” Bucky obeyed with alacrity, perhaps knowing even better than Tony how much Tony needed this. Not just the sex, although he really felt like he could go off like a rocket at the slightest touch, but also that Tony needed to be in charge, needed to be on top, needed to have full and complete control over it.

Didn’t matter, the sight of Bucky’s bare ass as he knelt on the stairs, gripping the rail with his metal hand, letting his weight fall on the other hand, was mesmerizing.

“When did I start needing you so much?” Tony asked, not really expecting an answer. He ran one hand lightly over the curve of Bucky’s ass, loving the way Bucky groaned and shifted under him. His fingers traced the line of Bucky’s crack, teasing, light, until Bucky was whining with need.

“I don’t know, but if you’re tryin’ to get me to needin’ you so much,” Bucky complained, “then you’ve succeeded. Come on, Tony, don’t tease.”

Tony merely chuckled, wickedly, and went back to torturing his boyfriend with sensual strokes of his hand, sinful kisses. He moved closer, closer to where Bucky wanted him, and then away, letting Bucky’s shifting hips chase those dragging kisses. “Are you trying to get away, or come closer?” Tony asked.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Bucky whined.

“Good,” Tony said, “that’s exactly it, baby. Let me get you all crazy.”

“Short fucking trip,” Bucky all but snarled.

Tony was hot, hard, shaking, needy for it. So desperately wrecked by desire it was a wonder he could see straight. And yet, even as his body was screaming for release, screaming for him to do something, now, damnit, now, he had a strange calm, control. Somewhere along the line, this had ceased to be about exercising some sort of sway over his sex life, asserting his authority, and reclaiming his dignity, and it had become about them, about Bucky, about Tony, and the love between them.

He wanted Bucky, wanted him to love this, love what they were together, and wanted him to know, completely and thoroughly, that Bucky was Tony’s, as much as Tony was Bucky’s. That they belonged to each other. Belonged _together_.

“I love you,” Tony said, simple, not even expecting Bucky to hear him, or to be able to respond, but needing to say it anyway.

“Love you, too,” Bucky managed, then tossed a hungry, needful look over his shoulder. “But I really want you to fuck me. Now would be great.”

Tony gave Bucky’s ass a quick caress, then slapped down lightly, making Bucky groan and push back. “All right, baby,” Tony said. “All right.”

He knew exactly what to do, where to touch. Everything he did seemed to drive Bucky more and more wild. Each flick of his tongue, each scrape of his teeth sent shivers down Bucky’s back until he was wracked with tremors, dripping sweat.

Tony spread Bucky’s cheeks apart, squeezed a packet of lube along his crack and over his hole, working one fingertip in, gentle, but urgent. “Oh, yes, Tony, please, more…” Bucky was pleading, begging, and Tony couldn’t seem to force himself to move any faster. The sight of Bucky, writhing and groaning and totally shameless, was too much, and not enough. Bucky kept pushing back against Tony’s finger until he finally relented and gave him another, scissoring him open. Pressing against the muscle, coaxing it to relax, give way. “Let me just do everything, baby,” Tony uged. “All you gotta go is let me in.”

“Come on,” Bucky gasped. Each muscle in his back was lined with sweat, glowing under the single bulb of the hall light; on display for Tony.

“You’re almost ready for me,” Tony told him, watching his fingers, up to three now, but Bucky’s hold was fluttering, trying to clamp down, push him back out. “So tight, baby, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Tony, I--”

Tony slid another finger inside, four now, and effectively ended any chance whatsoever that Bucky could speak at all. He was gasping and moaning, sweat dripping from his neck, splattering against the wooden stairs. Bucky was stretched wide and nearly sobbing with need, pushing his thighs apart further. Beckoning to Tony, almost taunting him with that slick, willing opening.

“What do you want, baby?” Tony asked him, just for the sheer delight of listening to Bucky try to form coherent sentences.

“Anything,” Bucky gasped. “Just… don’t stop, please, Tony…”

“I can’t wait much longer,” Tony mentioned, like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t on fucking fire for Bucky, like his dick didn’t ache and his balls weren’t tight against his body.

“Then don’t fucking wait,” Bucky shot back.

Tony withdrew his fingers, a flicker of smug smirk touching his mouth as Bucky whined and pleaded, incoherent. Tony had no idea how he got the condom on, his hands were shaking so bad. His desire was so fierce, he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to last long. He was going to come as soon as he got fully seated, if not sooner, and wasn’t that going to be fucking humiliating? He pushed in, just an inch, just til his crown slid past that ring of muscle. Bucky’s body clenched up, then loosened again, accepting his invasion.

Bucky went silent and still under him, the only sounds his panting gasps. Another inch, two, that much closer to heaven, and _oh, God, Bucky, please_ … Tony was begging and he didn’t even know what for. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breath, concentrated on the way Bucky was shifting. He was so exquisitely _tight_. Oh, god.

Finally, Bucky adjusted, raised his head just a little. “Move,” he urged. “Now, come on, I want you, now.”

Tony’s hips moved of their own volition, unable to remain still when he was so near to his climax. Bucky was pure perfection around him, squeezing. Bucky pushed back into Tony’s strokes, driving the need, the fire, higher. He was squirming, writhing, drawing Tony deeper into him, until Tony was nearing a frenzy.

“God, Tony, touch me,” Bucky begged, “need it, I need it so bad.”

Tony slipped his hand around Bucky’s stomach, his hand still lightly coated with lube, and stroked, letting Bucky take over the motion of their strokes, fucking himself inside Tony’s fist, letting Tony rock in and out. He cried out, a sweeter sound than anything that ever rang in Tony’s ears before, a breathy little moan and exhalation, whisper of Tony’s name.

And then Tony was coming, hard, and his eyes squeezed shut in the fierce ecstasy of it. “Oh, god, Bucky.” Tony’s cries were ripped from his mouth as he found relief, release, joy. He thrust, one last time, and spilled himself in a rush.

For some timeless moment, they remained there, Bucky’s arms holding them both up, the muscles shaking and quivering as they fought to breathe, waited for the rush to settle. Eventually, Tony was able to move again, pulled himself out and nearly collapsed on the steps. Bucky groaned, rolled over. There were deep, red grooves in the skin just below his knees that would probably form bruises.

“ _Christ_ ,” Bucky said, finally. “Remind me never to tell you we can’t do somethin’ again.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Tony said, running one hand over Bucky’s chest, his flank. “I like a challenge.”


	8. (Financial) Independence Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets an unpleasant wake up...
> 
> ... and then Tony gets one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter contains vivid panic attack, some body horror, blood and gore, and Bucky trying to self-remove the prosthetic. Proceed with caution

The music was a thunder in his ears. Someone had the bass set so loud that the floor was vibrating under him. Bucky rolled over in bed and crammed a pillow over his head.

 _...you came in knocking knocking me down_  
_atomic bomb bomb in this house_  
_only you can burn the walls around me…_

At first, the pop and crackle was virtually unnoticed behind the ridiculously loud music. Bucky grumbled. He didn’t know how much sleep he’d gotten, but it didn’t seem like anywhere close to enough. The bass was thrumming through his bones. Bucky rubbed at his shoulder; vibrations made his arm ache at the shoulder join.

It had been a particularly long day; Hand had rented out the entire Red Room to a bachelor party on Friday night and the groom was going to be lucky if he didn’t get left at the altar, since they didn’t drag their asses out of the strip bar until somewhat after eight in the morning. Not to mention he was pretty sure the groom had gotten a hand job from one of the girls, which was generally frowned on, but sometimes overlooked.

Bucky didn’t understand that at all. If you weren’t ready to get married and give up your freedom to sleep around, don’t get married. How hard was that? Apparently people found it really damn hard, but whatever.

_Bang. Pop pop pop pop._

Bucky lifted his head. It was dark in the room, which wasn’t surprising. He’d thrown himself into bed at seven Saturday night. He was getting too old to pull this ‘round the clock bullshit, and he was going to get his days and nights twisted around again if he wasn’t careful. But it was so easy to do, being in a room with Tony was like drinking espresso, but without the headache later.

Bucky had worked a fifteen hour shift -- mostly just standing around, the groom’s party hadn’t been rowdy, just unfaithful -- and then he was too keyed up from work to sleep right away, so he and Tony had caught a double-feature matinee and gone out to lunch. Hand had given him Saturday off (more so she wouldn’t have to pay any more overtime, Bucky thought than any actual compassion) and that was great.

**Bang!**

Bucky peered at the clock. It was 9:35. What the -- **bang, pop bang bang!**

… hell?

He reached out but the bed was empty. Not surprising, Tony’s schedule was even more erratic than --

**Bang! Crackle!**

Lights flickered against the wall and ceiling, accompanied by more explosions.

Bucky pressed a hand to his chest. It was harder to breathe than it should have been, like someone was sitting on his ribs. He struggled out of the restraining blankets. They caught at his legs and he thrashed. Something crashed to the floor and Bucky flinched away from it, ending up on the side of the bed closer to the window. Lights flared, orange, gold and white. Smoke and the smell of sulphur reached him, even through the window.

_… dust spraying into the air._

_Footing was unstable, the sand provided either no traction, or too much. Bucky’s rifle was strapped across his shoulder and someone had hold of it, pulling him back. The …_

Bucky shook his head, trying to clear it.

_...the smell of blood, under the dirt and smoke. The sounds of panic. A flash of light and the vehicle in the street in front of him suddenly exploded. He didn’t know if was mortar fire, a car bomb, one of the suiciders they…_

His arm ached. Bucky managed to focus. He was scratching at the scar tissue around the join, digging at it with his nails like he was trying to pull it off.

The silver metal reflected the lights. Was this his arm? What the hell, how had…

More explosions and Bucky couldn’t tell anymore. He rolled, taking cover. His hand hit something on his way down. Glass shattered. A brief flicker of electricity against the floor, shooting sparks. He scrambled backward away from the bed ( _burning vehicle_ ) and turned ( _to check his six and a bloody hand got his attention_ ) away, cringing up against ( _half of Morita’s face was covered in blood, another crimson spill over his shoulder_ ) wall.

_Searing, brilliant agony…_

_… wasn’t sure how he got there…_

_Shaking. Jones, the medic, was already there. “No, Sarge, don’t look --”_

_But he had to look, didn’t he? Had to know how…_

_Fingers digging into the skin. Ragged white bone jutting, brilliant against the sea of red. And Bucky was screaming, screaming --_

“Hey, hey,” Jones was saying, but it wasn’t his voice. Bucky turned his head away from his arm, he couldn’t, gagging, stomach heaving.

_It hadn’t hurt, not so much, not too bad, until he saw it. Or didn’t see it. His arm was gone, done, torn off and bleeding. He was fading._

_Ice in his veins. Breathing slowed. Even under the agony of his arm, Bucky felt the needle slip under his skin. “Here you go, Sarge, this’ll make it stop.”_

_Bucky didn’t want it to stop. The creeping cold was worse, terrifying. He was dying, he was going to die thousands of miles from his home under the sand-brown sky, laying in the dirt and bleeding to death and all he wanted was just one more --_

“Bucky!”

How had it gotten so dark? He was just under the sun. Another explosion and Bucky was cringing, pulling himself into a tiny ball.

“ _Jesus_ ,” someone said, and then “Hang on, honey, just a minute, let me turn the lights on --”

The lights flickered, and the -- **POP**! -- and Bucky could smell more smoke.

“Fuck,” the man said, then moved again. A light came on, flooding a small area of the…

… bedroom?

A shadowy figure bent and pulled something off the floor, yanked the plug out.

“Bucky, honey?” The shadow crouched near him, voice warm and familiar but… it wasn’t someone from his unit… then…

“Tony?” Bucky’s throat hurt. Had he been screaming?

“Yeah, honey, it’s me.” Tony was a blur, the light from the bathroom behind him, like one of those last-minute saviors from a movie. He was fuzzy around the edges and Bucky could barely make out the details of his face.

“Chest hurts,” Bucky admitted.

“I can believe it,” Tony said. His hand dropped lightly onto Bucky’s knee, and Bucky realized he was still curled up in a ball, so tight that every muscle in his body was shrieking at him.

It took him a few minutes to shift even enough to let go of his legs, to let them drop to the floor so that he could take a deeper breath. Even being that open felt vulnerable. Like something was going to attack him just because his legs were out? Bucky sneered at himself; felt his neck heat in shame.

“Is it… is it okay if I ask what happened?” Tony was peering at him, trying to catch Bucky’s gaze. Bucky managed to unkink himself a little further, then arched away from the wall a little as the muscles in his back rebelled. Ow, _ow…_ “Was it a bad dream?”

Bucky shook his head. “‘Spolsions,” he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the winder. “Um… fireworks? I thought the 4th was…”

Tony let out a soft sigh. “The 4th _is_ on Tuesday, but some places are letting them off early, for the weekend,” he said. “You weren’t ready. Aw, baby.”

Bucky hated this, he fucking _hated_ it. Feeling out of control and weak and scared and having someone else see it. Like he was letting Tony down. Like he wasn’t being strong enough for Tony, that Tony couldn’t depend on him, that --

His chest started heaving again, as if he was running a race, as if he were being chased by something. The blood went ‘round in his veins again, thick and sluggish and cold. And yet, he was sweating. His stomach churned.

“Hey, hey,” Tony was saying, slow, calming. His hand was on the back of Bucky’s neck, fingers rubbing in his hair. “Hey, whatever you’re thinking there, you’re wrong, honey. It’s okay, this is… this is perfectly normal. You’re okay, and I’m okay, and we’re gonna get through this, all right? We’ll… we’ll make plans for Tuesday, so you’re away from the noise, maybe we’ll go see a late-evening movie or something. Something calm and soothing and stupid. I’m sure there’s some comedy or chick flick or Pixar thing in theaters.”

Weirdly enough, it was the mental image of Tony eating popcorn and making suggestive commentary during a kid’s movie that got Bucky to finally relax the rest of the way. His head still hurt like someone had hit him in the head with a gold brick wrapped with a slice of lemon, but he managed a weak laugh. “Sure, that sounds good. We’ll go be super, super gay and see something artsy?”

Tony managed to wrinkle his nose and look both cute and disgusted at the same time. “Fuck you, no! I’m for _Cars 3_ , or _Moana_ , or something sappy and sentimental and animated. No movies where the light’s all done in burnt sienna and everybody dies. Ug.”

“You’re a terrible girlfriend,” Bucky pointed out.

“Good thing I’m not your girlfriend.”

Bucky pulled Tony into his arms, laying his head on Tony’s shoulder. “You’re better,” he said. “Love you, baby, so much.”

“I love you, too,” Tony said. They sat there a while longer, and then, “Come on, let’s get you showered, you gotta feel all sticky, and then back into bed? You think you can manage that? Or you just want me to wipe you down with a washcloth?”

There was something appealing in the idea of just letting Tony take care of him. And, a very small part of his brain was noticing that Tony was holding himself a little straighter than usual, that Tony looked… _happier_? Maybe? Bucky remembered, when Tash was so busy falling apart, that being able to work with her and her problems made his arm hurt less, the weird feeling he got every time his fingers reflected the light, each whirr and hiss of the servos. Maybe Tony helping Bucky was… helping _Tony_?

Reminding Tony that people needed him. That _Bucky_ needed him. Yeah, okay.

“Can you, just? I still feel really dizzy,” Bucky said. It wasn’t even a lie, but with someone else, with anyone else, he might have tried to bully through it. So he wouldn’t appear weak. But he trusted Tony. He _could_ trust Tony. Tony wasn’t going to mock him, or think less of him, or anything. Tony was going to help because that was what Tony _wanted_ to do.

“Yep,” Tony said, blissfully unaware of how fast Bucky’s brain was spinning. “I’ll take care of you, honey, it’s okay. It’ll be just fine, you’ll see.”

***

 

_It’s only paranoia if they’re not out to get you._

The first time Bucky saw the woman with the long black hair and the ridiculously over-sized gray scarf, he didn’t pay any attention. She was leaning against the building across the street and digging through her purse like she might have lost her car keys, or was looking for her cell phone. He only noticed her at all because she was as thin as a toothpick, which made that scarf look even more ridiculous on her. Especially since it was July and fashion-statement or not, Bucky couldn’t imagine she wasn’t too warm.

Although most of the really skinny girls that Bucky knew were always cold, so maybe she was.

If he had never seen her again, Bucky would have forgotten she existed; it was in his nature to notice anomalies, to track patterns, to build threat assessments. A nature that the Army had taken and used with all the enthusiasm of a kid turned loose in a toy store. The only good thing Bucky had ever been able to figure was that he got ruined and sent home before the visceral horror to depression to acceptance to enjoyment cycle finished its play. He knew too many guys, had served with too many others that got stuck in a bad place on that merry-go-round.

But he saw the same woman a day later, sitting out in front of the coffee shop, sipping an iced latte.

And even then, he might not have worried too much about it; he did have neighbors and there were always new people wandering in and out of the neighborhood.

Except he waved Tony off one morning -- he was headed into the college to get his paperwork to finish the medical withdrawal for the last semester and sign up for his classes come fall -- and she was there. She stubbed a smoke as Tony headed to the train station, settled her bag. _And followed Tony_.

There’s a niggling ache in Bucky’s brain.

It didn’t take much to recall vividly those days that had passed when he was afraid Tony was dead. There was an unknown at the scene of the accident, an unknown who has yet to be identified. A head-on collision and no one had found the other car, the other driver, and there was really no way that could have gone on so long if it had been an actual goddamn accident.

_It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you._

Bucky chewed at his lip, trying to decide what to do. That was the worst part about being a sniper; being told who to kill made it easier to never have to make that decision. You knew who your target was. You shot who you were told to shoot. You relied on someone else’s intel. It was never your own call.

_Following orders._

Bucky’s first instinct was to unlock his service pistol, load it, and go hunting. Bad plan. Without more intel, he had no idea what he was getting into, no backup, and while no one was likely to notice if he put a sweatshirt on and tucked the pistol in his shoulder harness, it wasn’t the south. If someone saw him with a gun there would be trouble. Bucky had a concealed carry license, but there were a lot of public places in Massachusetts that didn’t permit weapons, license or not. And Bucky didn’t have an ankle holster.

Bucky pulled out his phone. _Please, Tony, just be smart._

_Wnt u 2 do me a favor  
Cn u do that?_

New text from Tony:

_Whatcha need, baby_

_Go 2 nearst shop. Buy somthn. Anything, don’t care. Cm home. Ill explan when u get bk? Just do it. For me._

New text from Tony:

_U want a Coke?_

_Sure. gr8. <3 u_

He went to the window and studied the area. Unlocked and loaded his gun. Slung himself into the holster and wiggled it around a bit. Pulled on a zip-up hoodie, two sizes too big. Made sweater paws and headed outside his apartment through the back door. Found a good vantage spot to watch the front door.

Waited.

 _Thank you, Tony._ He had a bag under one arm and while he looked vaguely puzzled, he also wasn’t coping glances over his shoulder, which Bucky would have been doing if someone sent him on a ‘round about.

Inside, Tony would find a note that Bucky’d drawn up on post it notes that basically told him to stay the fuck in the house and away from the windows. _Probably I’m being paranoid, but we’ll see. I love you._

The woman wasn’t too far behind him, either, and she didn’t see Bucky until he stepped out behind her. “You’re good,” he said, low voice, and a smile touched his mouth, cold and calculating when she didn’t jump out of her skin or shriek or panic. “Professional. I’m gonna guess cop, because PIs are still just punks with a license. You’re not good enough to be a spook, but you could be with more training.”

“The boyfriend,” the woman said. “Fuck.”

“Not your calling, sweetheart. Can I see some ID? What’s your badge?”

“Detective Jones,” she said. “I’m gonna reach into my pocket and get my badge. And then I’m going to call my backup before Cage makes mincemeat out of you. Is that okay?”

Bucky turned the badge case inside out, looked at the back of her badge. Studied the ID card with a careful eye.

“You know what you’re looking at,” she observed, sending another text.

“Not entirely, but I’ve seen some impressive forgeries before,” Bucky said. No need to get cocky. “Wanna tell me why you’re following my man around?”

“Well, you’ve blown up my surveillance,” she complained. “But I was getting ready to call it and bring him in.”

“For what?”

“There’s reason to believe that Howard Stark’s death wasn’t an accident.”

***

 

Tony tapped his fingernails on the countertop, listening to the sharp little taps. “Do you want to explain to me why I’m making coffee for the biggest and smallest policemen I’ve ever met?”

The coffee pot gurgled and spluttered ambrosia into the pot. He did have to say that Bucky at least kept damn good coffee beans in his kitchen, with a nice grinder, but his coffee pot was old as Methuselah and needed a good descaling while someone was at it. Tony was afraid that pointing it out might be the same as volunteering, so he was just keeping his mouth shut. One of these days he’d get around to ordering a new one. Consider it a housewarming gift from their unexpected flatmate or something. Bucky would complain for all of about ten minutes, Tony could pour him a cup and everything would be fine.

“Detectives,” Bucky said.

Tony snuck a peek out of the kitchen and into the living room where the two of them sat. The tiny little woman, Jones, had her back to the big guy’s arm, using him like a cushion, her boots on the arm of Bucky’s sofa. They’d either been partners for a very long time, Jones had no idea about appropriate and professional behavior, or they were fucking. Or all three, Tony supposed. “What?”

“They’re detectives,” Bucky repeated. “Investigating.”

“Investigating what? And why are you carrying a gun around?”

How did Tony not know that Bucky had a gun safe in the back of his closet, and that it was well-stocked, before today? Some genius he was.

“Come in here and let me tell you about it, Stark,” Jones bellowed. She had a huge voice for such a tiny woman.

“You have all the sensitivity of an anthill,” Cage rumbled.

“Ug, I wanted to do this the easy way,” Jones complained. “I like stakeouts. I get to charge all sorts of coffee and doughnuts and snacks to the expense report to blend in, and there’s so much less paperwork. You’re the one who ruined this, Barnes, and I’m not in a forgiving sort of mood.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I was worried about you,” he snapped, but he got a box of corner-store coffee cake to offer them.

“I can’t believe you spotted her,” Cage said. “People usually don’t.”

Tony poured the coffee and brought out one mug for each of the detectives. The whole situation made him very nervous, playful banter between Cage and Jones or not. Bucky was right behind him. He sat Tony’s coffee down on the end table, let Tony drop into the chair, and then twisted into a squat and ended up at Tony’s feet on the floor. That might have been more cute and romantic if he didn’t then mutter a curse and shift his gun holster around. That Bucky didn’t feel comfortable enough to take it off was… worrisome.

Jones looked up from her phone when Cage elbowed her in the back and she coughed a few times before rolling around to sit up straight.

“Just so you know,” Tony said, easily, settling back into the chair and letting his press-smile that he’d developed somewhere around the same time that he’d learned to count cards and drink whiskey (so, eleven, maybe?), “that I already know anything I say can be used against me and cops _always_ lie when they say something’s off the record. So, before you start feeling me out, I’m going to ask once, nicely, and then we’ll play all the hardball you want. I have a fleet of very expensive attorneys and I’m quite sure I can get one here in less than an hour. What do you want?”

Jones tucked her phone away and gave Tony a very serious look. “We have reason to believe that your parents’ death, while tragic, might not have been an accident.”

Tony swallowed, his throat aching with sudden tension. “I see.” The rest of the puzzle fell into place immediately, as Jones had been following him around. On the other hand, she was casually sitting on his sofa eating the crumble off the top of cheap coffee cake, rather than hauling him in for questioning. “Am I a suspect?”

“Officially, yes,” Cage said. “It’s true eighty percent of the time that a killer is someone the victim knew. We start with the spouse and work our way out.”

“And I’m the sole beneficiary of Stark Industries,” Tony said.

“There are people for whom a few hundred bucks is motive for murder,” Jones said. “Imagine how that looks when there are _billions_ of reasons.”

Tony’s head ached. “Am I being charged at this time, Detectives?”

“No,” Jones said. She picked at her teeth with a nail for a moment, then added, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think you had anything to do with it. My counterpart from New York, however, is a different matter. Putting the collar on a Stark for the murder of a Stark? That’d be big. And you don’t have an alibi for the night in question.”

“Well, that’d be poor planning,” Tony pointed out, “if I was going to murder my parents. I am actually a genius, I’m pretty sure I could have done a better job. What makes you think they were murdered. Did you finally get a bead on our John-Doe at the scene?”

“Not that we can say with any certainty,” Jones said.

“But?”

“Someone tampered with the steering mechanism of your father’s car,” Jones said. “Wouldn’t need an alibi for the night in question if you thought he was going to take the car out for a test drive. The fix wouldn’t have been immediately noticeable, but in a sharp turn, the wheel was set to lock up; he could have driven off the road at any time. And your father’s tendency to drink and drive is public knowledge. Any incident could have turned deadly in a heartbeat.”

Tony’s chest closed. “My mother gave him that car,” Tony pointed out. “It was a Christmas present.”

“You were supposed to be with them,” Bucky said from his place at Tony’s feet. “Your godfather brought you home for Easter break. If Jan hadn’t badgered you into taking some time off, you’d have been in the car with them.”

The air in Tony’s chest turned to lead. Had someone been trying to wipe out the entire Stark clan? If…

“Did your father have any enemies?” Cage asked.

Tony managed a cynical laugh. In cop shows, people were always saying stupid shit like ‘everyone loved Michael’ when no one was universally loved, everyone had enemies, and there was usually at least one person who really wouldn’t miss the victim. “Jesus fucking Christ, he was Howard Stark, the man made enemies like some people make their beds. _Every goddamn day_.”

“I don’t,” Jones said, sounding almost offended.

“Don’t make the bed? I know,” Cage added, rolling his eyes.

“You two are adorable and I hate you. Get out of my house,” Bucky said. There was an edge to his voice there that Tony wasn’t happy about.

“Bucky’s right,” Tony said. “If you’re not planning to take me in, I believe all conversations from now on can take place through my attorney.”

“That’s fine,” Cage said. “Just don’t leave the state--”

“I’m afraid that’s unlikely to dissuade me,” Tony said. He didn’t bother to get up as they did. “I do have a multi-billion dollar industry to oversee. I can’t guarantee my whereabouts.”

Jones’ eyebrow shot up, but all she said was, “all right, then, Mr. Stark. We’ll be in touch.”

Bucky popped to his feet, graceful enough that it made Tony’s mouth dry to watch it, followed them to the door and locked it behind them.

“What the hell was that all about?” Tony wondered.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think they think you killed your parents,” Bucky said, “but I do think they’re going to try to use you to flush the murderer out. If you were supposed to be in that car--” Tony noticed that his boyfriend was trembling and went to embrace Bucky, trying to warm him and comfort him as best he could. Tony knew Bucky had feared the worst, and this was bringing it all up again.

“--then they may try again,” Tony said. “You think that’s why they’re following me around?”

“Yeah.” Bucky chewed on his lip, which always made Tony want to kiss him and tempt that lip back out from under Bucky’s teeth. “That… that could be a problem.”

“Look, I…” The problem with being a genius was that Tony’s brain moved a lot faster than his mouth did, and sometimes his brain was all the way around the block before the mouth even got out the front door. But this time, this time he thought he had a good idea. The problem would be talking Bucky into it. “I may have a solution for the problem you haven’t quite worked your way around to.”

“Huh?”

“You’re about three steps to becoming worried that someone’s put a hit out on me,” Tony said.

Bucky’s eyes widened. Yeah, called it.

“What’s your solution?”

“Quit your job at the Red Room,” Tony said. “And let Stark Industries pay you a salary to be my bodyguard.”

For just an instant, Bucky held himself rigidly, as if the offer was something he was honor-bound to reject and then all the pieces fell away, leaving only Bucky, folding Tony into his arms as if he intended to take a bullet for Tony. Which, if he actually took the job, there existed the possibility that he would, and Tony was such a goddamn bad person, but if he had to have someone protecting him, he wanted it to be Bucky.

“All right, baby,” Bucky said. “We’ll do that, then.”


	9. Back to School Fundraiser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Tony both get used to the idea of bodyguards...  
> And Bucky has trust issues... 
> 
> Then again, he has good reason for them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I spend all my time apologizing to you guys about this fic, don’t I? Anyway, warning for blood, warning for gore, and warning for cliffhanger.
> 
> SERIOUSLY. You have been warned. If you can’t handle a cliffhanger, you want to **stop reading now** and come back in September when I post the next chapter. (And I totally don’t blame you if that’s your choice!)
> 
> Still, happy ending (eventually) so, you know, just read with caution. (This fic is NOT a deathfic. Just saying.)

Things were never as simple as Tony made them out to be. They were certainly never as simple as he _wanted_ them to be.

First off, after consulting with the head of security for Stark Industries, Happy Hogan, he’d discovered that there was no way that Bucky could possibly be the entirety of Tony’s security. The fact that Tony even had a head of security was mind-bogglingly weird. It wasn’t that he didn’t know his father had bodyguards from time to time, especially for out-of-the-country appearances, but it really hadn’t occurred to Tony that these things would transfer, along with the ownership of the company itself.

Bucky had turned in his two weeks notice at the Red Room, and he’d also -- on Happy’s recommendation -- signed up for a two-week refresher course. Technically, Bucky had never done the basic course, but after some performance reviews with a trainer, it was decided that his years as special forces and his work as a bouncer had given him a lot of the basics and he mostly just needed things like disarming techniques and a few pointers.

Which meant for the beginning of the semester, at least, Tony was on rotation with some of the new bodyguards that had been assigned to him.

Which further meant that Tony had to do a lot of paperwork for making sure his bodyguards were allowed on campus.

He liked Sunset, she was one of the women who’d come in for the interviews -- Happy had suggested that he talk with the various assignees before accepting them into his detail -- and had been polished, intelligent, easy on the eyes. She’d also been frighteningly competent. Tony had watched her in the gym while she did a demonstration, taking down half a dozen men who’d been promised a five thousand dollar bonus if they could pin her for three seconds.

They’d all failed. Spectacularly.

The nicest thing about Sunset was, however, the fact that she didn’t terrify people. (Or Tony. Tony didn’t really want to admit that Eugene Thompson scared him. Just a bit.)

The week before classes started, Tony spent several days on the campus. Several of his teachers had expressed sympathy with the situations that had caused him to withdraw last semester. Perhaps not unexpectedly, his female professors had been more sympathetic about Rumlow’s attack, and the others had been concerned about Tony’s losing his parents. Tony was pretty sure someone at SI was pushing, at least, a huge financial contribution to allow him the opportunity to do some make-up tests.

The tests, if he passed them, would give him credit for those classes he’d been forced to withdraw from that previous semester. If he failed, or got a grade lower than a B, he could chose to take the classes over again with no penalty.

It was an elegant solution, Tony thought, to the problems that the whole mess had been; it gave him the opportunity to prove his intelligence. Could he pass the finals after missing half the course materials in presentations? If yes, he wouldn’t fall behind in his work. MIT, after all, had both a reputation to maintain and the Stark legacy to consider. If Tony fell behind, would he decide that his degree wasn’t worth the effort? After all, the company came to him, it’s not like he needed the credentials. And even the stupidest, most stalwart defender of “he needs to earn those grades” philosophy would see that losing Tony as a student would be a blow.

After all, alumni donations were a beautiful thing.

Tony sighed. He hadn’t wanted his money to matter, in the case of his schooling, but this was still a better solution than most.

Already, various members of the board were pressing for his opinion, his attendance at board meetings, a direction to steer the company in. He was going to have to make it official; let Obadiah run the company in his name, at least until Tony finished school. Which meant having to sit down and have meetings with Obie about what directions Tony wanted the company steered.

But first, tests.

Tony stared back at his exam booklet. He could feel Sunset’s eyes on him. Despite the fact that she technically wasn’t supposed to be in the room -- it should have been just him and the proctor -- she’d gotten some sort of special dispensation.

Sometimes the whole thing felt ridiculous. Who the fuck was going to take a shot at Tony while he was taking his Advanced Engineering and Motivations exam?

On the other hand, there was a dead body in the morgue and the tampered steering column of Howard’s car.

Tony sighed and got back to work. The test wasn’t all that hard. Even if he’d missed half the semester’s worth of material, at least half of the exam was from the previous material, so he finished that part relatively quickly. Eidetic memory was useful for a few more things than vibrantly and vividly replaying all the worst memories of his life.

The second half of the semester’s material was harder, although some of it he thought he did okay on, based on that fact that he read relatively quickly and had been reading ahead in the course material just because the information was both fascinating and somewhat out of date.

That was a question he had a lot of trouble with, when he came across problem-solving for a situation in which new developments vastly outstripped the tech as presented in the materials. Did he give the answer as the test expected; what the professor or his TAs would be grading on, or did he present the better, more elegant solution based on current updates.

Tony sighed and filled it out for the right practical answer, rather than the correct test scores solution. He’d defend the answer, if he had to, but he couldn’t bring himself to write down a poor practical.

He checked the clock on the wall. Thirty-four minutes left in the exam time. He glanced at the proctor, bored out of her mind and staring at her fingernails. She also wasn’t allowed to have her phone on her during the exam, and really, Tony hadn’t done anything aside from sit there and scribble frantically in his exam booklet for the better part of an hour.

Glanced at the booklet again. Wondered if it would be worth his time to double check his work. Probably not. He could recall the entire test if he needed to, without even looking at it, and despite everything people might have thought about Tony Stark, his handwriting was impeccable. Good, readable handwriting was a stone-cold necessity if you were going to work with other engineers.

He signed his name on the front cover, put the pencil down, and handed in his booklet.

The proctor gave him a wan smile. “Thank God,” she said. “I was running late this morning and I didn’t have time for a coffee.”

“Well, that’s a tragedy in the making,” Tony said. “Thanks for this.” He knew she was a volunteer; the situation was highly irregular.

“Not to worry,” she said. “We’ve all heard about you. You’re going places. I’d hate to be one of the reasons you didn’t get there.”

“Oh, I’ll get there, all right,” Tony said. “Just might have taken me a little longer without your assistance.”

“Good luck,” she said.

“Don’t need luck. Scientifically, luck has a poor prognosis.”

“That’s why they call it _luck_ ,” she pointed out.

Tony pocketed his pencil on the way to the door and collected his body guard. Sunset did not look bored. She looked alert and vivacious and pretty. “How was the test, boss?”

“Pretty sure I at least got a B,” Tony said.

It was stupidly hot outside the class building; every year it just seemed to get hotter. The sidewalk was particularly ghastly and Tony crossed the green on the grass, even though there were signs everywhere that said not to walk on it, just because honestly, his feet were getting torched inside his shoes.

He was just considering the pros and cons of an iced coffee (pro -- coffee. Con -- iced. Icky. watered down. But it’s so hot today. And, you know, coffee.) when he heard a voice that he absolutely did not want to hear.

“Hey, hey, hey, Tony. Wait up, man.”

Tony gritted his jaw. He didn’t turn. He didn’t stop. He just kept walking.

“Take care of it, Ms. Bain,” he said, not looking at her either.

“No, come on, Tony, don’t be like that.” Rumlow’s hand came down on Tony’s shoulder and pulled him to a halt.

***

The training modules weren’t hard, Bucky was discovering. In fact, they were a lot easier than the things he’d done in high school. Some of it was on par to his sniper training, and other course material he’d had to learn as part of his stint in the military.

The physical courses were _fun_. He enjoyed the challenges presented in urban combat, defensive firearms techniques, crowd-moving, and advanced control tactics. Most of it was just close enough to his bouncer training that he could lean on past experience. He certainly didn’t have the problems that some of the other guys in the course were having. Bucky had fought in enough bar fights that he wasn’t at all ashamed of using unsportsmanlike conduct, whereas some of these trainees were martial artists. Form, to them, was key. Elegance. Not hair pulling, or using the environment. The woman who was a judo expert was pretty good; Bucky’d enjoyed watching her work.

What he wasn’t having an easy time with was the theoreticals. He was good learning how to disarm a bomb -- but he had trouble with the idea that _this was something that could happen_. He learned how to conduct a car chase, in case of a primary kidnapping, and was haunted by the idea of Tony being bundled into someone else’s car, gun held to his temple, and having to hope that Bucky could catch them in traffic.

After one particularly descriptive lesson for infiltration attempts, Bucky found himself after class, in the halls, panting for breath. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to remember Rumlow pressed over Tony’s struggling body, the way the man had been tearing at Tony’s clothes, the flower of bruises over Tony’s throat.

“You sure you’re up to this job?” It was the woman -- Jennifer, Bucky thought her name was -- who’d impressed everyone in the takedown classes.

“Have t’ be,” Bucky said. “It’s against all sorts of practicals, but the primary--” he couldn’t help a sarcastic face at that “--my primary. Is my boyfriend. We’ve had some actual problems, and…”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Jennifer said. “You’re being used as an example in the other classes of what not to do. You’re compromised.”

“Because Tony’s my boyfriend,” Bucky said. “Yeah, I know. We all saw the damn _Bodyguard_ movie.” Truthfully, Bucky’d only seen it because Tasha had gone through a phase of terrible romance movies, and she’d forced a number of them on him. Personally, Bucky thought the movie was full of shit, and poorly acted on top of that, but it wasn’t a widely shared opinion, it seemed.

“If something happens to him --”

“It wouldn’t change anything,” Bucky interrupted. “I don’t plan to make this a career choice. It’s practical. If I’m going to be with him all the time anyway, I might as well know how to protect him, right?”

“Will you be able to live with yourself, if something happens?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “I don’t think that I’ll be able to live with it anyway,” he admitted. “So I need all the tools at my disposal, t’ make sure it _doesn’t happen_.”

Jennifer smiled, patted his arm. “I think it’s sweet that you love him so much,” she said. “Half of us are looking at protecting and possibly taking a bullet for a primary we don’t care about, the rest of us are looking into the Secret Service; taking a bullet for a politician, which has to be one of the hardest jobs there is. Being a political neutral in DC?”

Bucky knew he couldn’t do it; the assignments for the Secret Service were random, based on skill or other factors. Bucky wasn’t sure he could adequately protect, say, an anti-gay conservative, and he knew damn well that there were people in office that if someone pointed a gun at them, Bucky’d be tempted to help them with their aim. He wasn’t ashamed of that, but he could see the stress there. On the other hand, in the end, that was still just a job.

If someone shot Tony…

Well, Bucky wasn’t sure he could live with that.

But what he’d said was also the truth. He was going to die inside anyway, if that happened. Might as well be part of the prevention, right?

“Which half are you in?” Bucky rather liked Jennifer. She was smart, she was funny, and she had skills.

“I want to work for a movie star, or something like that. Get a glimpse of the glamorous life,” she said. “I wanted to model when I was younger, and then I hit this growth spurt at sixteen that destroyed any sort of Hollywood career. But, perhaps not unexpected, a lot of Hollywood big shots want pretty bodyguards, too. Image is everything out there, and I could make good money.”

That much was true, Jennifer was the tallest woman Bucky’d ever met, easily six and a half feet, muscular, and lean. And she was beautiful, stunningly so. She was pretty enough that it probably made up for the fact that she towered over most men. (Straight men could be so insecure, Bucky noticed.)

“I can put a word in for you with my boss,” Bucky joked. They were another week of classes out from getting their licenses, which wasn’t as good as practical experience, but there were enough vets on Tony’s team, one or two new people wouldn’t go amiss, and Bucky would honestly feel better if there was someone he knew and trusted looking out for his man.

“I’ll come by and meet him, if you want,” Jennifer said. It was almost unexpected; she might really have wanted to push out to California right away. Then again, bird in the hand and all that. Getting some experience with Tony Stark, up and coming CEO of the world’s most progressive weapons and technology company, would get her some street cred, experience, and all things considered, probably not too much work. Even with the suspected possible murderer after Tony’s life. At least she wouldn’t have to be dealing with groupies.

“Yeah, I’ll talk with him,” Bucky said. “He’s mostly getting his security from Stark Industries right now, but --”

“You don’t trust them,” Jennifer said.

“No, I don’t, actually.”

Jennifer leaned in and kissed his cheek. “You’re a sweet kid, Barnes. Call me next week, we’ll have lunch and I’ll impress your primary.”

***

Brock Rumlow got maybe two more words out that weren’t desperate repetitions of Tony’s name and something that might have been the start of an apology, before Sunset Bain stepped in and did what she was hired to do.

Tony didn’t have to look; the sounds were brutal and clear. The weight of Brock’s hand vanished from Tony’s shoulder and there was an awful thud of a body hitting the grassy lawn with breath-stealing force.

Brock was gasping for air and Sunset didn’t even pause; she came down on him like a ton of bricks, her pointy elbow aimed into his stomach, and Tony flinched. He understood that violence was necessary, he understood that by telling Sunset to take care of it, he’d signed a contract for her to do violence. There was a dark, angry part of Tony that wanted Sunset to kick Brock’s ass for him, to do it for vengeance, and to do it to protect. Tony would be straight up lying to himself if he tried to say he didn’t want Brock harmed. He was still waking up in the middle of the night, choking for air, trying to push an invisible force away. If Tony could go even a month without feeling that sickening dread, without waking Bucky up and letting his boyfriend talk him down out of a night terror, that would be great.

Unfortunately, he didn’t think that was going to be accomplished by Sunset removing Brock’s head from his shoulders.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s enough.” He hoped that was enough. He hoped Brock wasn’t going to be stupid, wasn’t going to take the fact that a woman half his size had just knocked him to the ground and had his wrist pinned up between his shoulder blades as some insult, and keep fighting.

Tony also hoped that he could get through the next five minutes without puking in terror. Just hearing Brock’s voice had been enough to send him right back there, in the smothering darkness, with no air in his chest, with his clothes torn open, knowing, knowing, that there was nothing he could do to prevent what was about to happen to him and resenting it.

Even with the bodyguards and Bucky looking out for him, Tony didn’t feel safe. He didn’t feel safe because there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t protect himself. He couldn’t build a suit of armor around his heart and keep the bad things out.

“Come on, Tony,” Brock said. He coughed a few times. “I just want to talk.”

“I can’t imagine there’s anything that I want to talk about with you,” Tony said. He still hadn’t looked around. He wasn’t sure if seeing Brock’s face was going to make things worse. He could imagine, at the moment, that Brock had a bloody nose, the beginnings of a black eye, that he might have terror and agony and humiliation painted over his features. Or he could just be spitting defiance.

“I’m sorry, man,” Brock said.

Of all the things that Brock could have said, this was not something that Tony had expected. Did rapists and attempted rapists ever apologize to a victim? Did that happen?

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Brock repeated. “Look, can… can I get up, here?”

“No,” Tony said. He still hadn’t turned. Didn’t want to see. Couldn’t look. “I don’t exactly feel sanguine about you being within fifty yards of me. What is it that you want?”

“To say I’m sorry,” Brock said. “That’s all. That’s… I was drunk an’ stupid and I just… got carried away. It wasn’t personal.”

“Sure as hell felt personal,” Tony snapped. “Drunk. Huh. That’s a great excuse. Were you drunk when you slipped rohypnol in my drink? Drunk when you planned to take me out of the party and into a back room where no one could hear you? Drunk? That’s some bender, Rumlow. Are you sorry because I was hurt, or are you sorry because you were caught? Because everyone on campus knows what you are?”

“I know you ain’t got a reason t’ believe me, but I did not drug your drink, Tony,” Brock said. His voice was low, servile, pleading. “I thought… I thought you were hittin’ on me. Ain’t like you don’t… didn’t…”

“My sexual proclivity is irrelevant,” Tony said, voice cold. “Once --”

“I know.” Brock’s voice broke. Tony really didn’t want to see that. He wasn’t sure he wanted Brock to apologize, to have excuses, to have Tony start doubting himself, to forgiving someone who’d hurt him so irrevocably. He wasn’t sure he could do that to himself. “Tony, come on, gimme a break, this is my life, an--”

“Oh, it’s your life, now, is it?” Tony whirled, finally facing Brock, staring at him. “What, exactly, did I do to your life? Did I make it so that you can’t sleep? Did I make it so that you wake up in the middle of dreams, choking to death. Did I make it so that you can’t bear to be touched, can’t stand to have someone hand you a glass? Did I make it so that you distrust the people in your life that you love, because you don’t know when someone’s going to turn on you? If I manage to affect your life to there merest percent of what you’ve done to me, I’ll be glad of it. So don’t you lay there on the ground with your pleading expressions and pretend that your life has been in any way devalued because of that night. Anything that happens to you, you deserved it. _You deserve it_.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Brock burst out. “I… it was an accident. I was drunk. I was stupid. You were… you were out of your goddamn mind and _I didn’t know_.”

“I don’t care.” Tony looked down at his fingernails. “I don’t believe you. And even if I did, I don’t care. I will live with what you did for the rest of my life. You might as well, too.”

***

“You know I have a perfectly good security team, right, baby?” Tony said. He was sitting in the cast-iron chair with two legs off the floor and his feet propped up on the patio table, which was going to be more annoying as soon as their food got out here.

Bucky grinned. Tony was joking around, light-hearted and showing off. He hadn’t been this relaxed in weeks, and Bucky was happy to see it.

The school had let him know the results of their investigation -- it wasn’t fair, maybe, but with Stark Industries’ powerful media machine behind it, the college had eventually found Brock Rumlow guilty and expelled him. “Using my powers for good,” Tony had called it. It sucked and there was a lot of backlash from people who were convinced that it was only Tony’s whiteness and maleness and money that let such a thing happen, when Rumlow was an athlete, and Bucky didn’t disagree. But it set precedent, and maybe, just maybe, it might push things in the right direction. A little bit.

“Here, get your feet off the table, asshole,” Bucky scolded him, and pulled Tony’s trim ankles into Bucky’s lap, sliding his fingers under the cuff of Tony’s slacks to tease at his calf. “You’re gonna scare Jenn off from her new job.”

“If you’re going to hire her no matter what I say, why are we having an interview at all?” Tony scoffed, but he let Bucky slide off Tony’s shoe and rubbed his foot against Bucky’s thigh. Oh, _god_ , that felt good, and Bucky was half-tempted to blow off the interview and just take Tony straight home to bed.

“Mr. Stark,” Jenn said, coming up. She was wearing a white pant suit with a green blouse and those heels she fancied. She’d demonstrated to Bucky during class that she could both run in them and kick ass. “ _But why_?” he’d demanded anyway. “I like being tall,” she said. Which was just nonsense. He had to admit, though, she looked thoroughly professional and rather intimidating.

Tony didn’t bother to stand up. “Have a seat, Ms. Walters. My overly paranoid bodyguard here has been singing your praises nonstop since you two graduated together, so you don’t need to give me your resume. You just need to convince me that you’ll do a good job.”

Jenn smiled and took a seat.

Bucky wasn’t really listening anymore; Tony kept rubbing his socked foot over Bucky’s thigh, nudging at the vee between Bucky’s legs with his toes. Evil, _evil_ boyfriend. Bucky grabbed Tony’s wandering foot and jammed his thumb into the arch, which got a slightly deeper sigh and Tony almost melted in the chair, still trying to be somewhat professional, even if it was probably pretty obvious that they were playing footsie.

Jenn would roll her eyes, but she wouldn’t mind. Probably. Besides, if Jenn was going to work for Tony, she was going to have to get used to it. Bucky had no intentions of keep his hands off his boyfriend, and if Jenn wanted to go on to Hollywood and do work for actors or singers, she’d need to develop a poker face anyway.

“... good eye for spotting small details,” Jenn was saying, and Bucky let his eyes do the automatic search. It was a habit he’d gotten into during the war, picking out the sniper spots, and even when there wasn’t a sniper there, he liked knowing. Better, when he’d seen a few snipers and the unit had managed to get undercover before the shit came down.

He wasn’t entirely happy with letting Tony eat out of doors. Tony had laughed a little, said Bucky was getting paranoid, and just because Howard and Maria had been (probably) killed didn’t mean that anyone was going to shoot Tony. That was inelegant and too easily found.

“Not gonna matter to you, if you’re dead,” Bucky had retorted.

“It’s bad planning,” Tony had insisted. “It’s too soon. They need to let my parent’s investigation die down before making another move.”

“We get sloppy, you get dead, and I’m going to raise you back up just so I can yell I told you so in your face,” Bucky had responded, and Tony had agreed with his assessment, rather than continue to argue.

But he’d still insisted on carrying on with a normal life. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life being afraid,” Tony had said.

Bucky glanced at the rooftops opposite them. One high-rise apartment, but it was freaking August, and this part of town was affluent enough to have building-wide air conditioning. No one had their windows open.

A flutter of movement. Slow, deliberate. He wouldn’t have seen it if his paranoia wasn’t ramped up to at least a seven, and Jenn wasn’t talking about line of sights, and not paying attention, because to her it was still _just a job_ , and to Bucky it was Tony. It was not just one life, but his own.

The black of a long-range rifle, like a spot in the sky with no stars. A flicker of windowblinds. Had someone cut the glass? Bucky squinted.

No time to see if he was right or wrong.

Bucky _moved_ , shoving Tony’s feet out of his lap.

“Halfway up the building, twenty-third, or fourth --”

_Pain._

Instant and punishing.

He knew, Bucky _knew_ , that bullets traveled faster than sound, and why was it still a shock that he didn’t hear the report of the rifle before the bullet struck him? He, of all people, should know better.

Bucky staggered a step.

Things happened in a series of flickers, staccato images.

_Fuck._

The table was toppling over, the water glasses crashing to the ground.

 _Blink_.

Jenn had Tony covered. Her jacket was splattered with blood.

Ow. Bucky was aware of pain, enormous pain. He couldn’t quite reach it, wasn’t sure if he was feeling it at all…

He reached behind him, brought his hand back soaked with blood.

“Get the shooter,” Bucky whispered. He staggered again.

“Bucky, no, Bucky, Bucky, baby, no, _no_ no, no.” Tony was crying and not even aware of it, his hand reaching for Bucky’s.

“Ow.”

Bucky went to his knees. What… what had happened? He couldn’t think. The world was spinning.

Everything was distorted. Sounds stretching like taffy.

There was something… something he needed to say.

“Tony?”

“Yeah, yeah, baby, I’m here, hold on, **somebody get me an ambulance!** I’m right here, Bucky, honey, oh, god, oh my god, Bucky…”

“... someone shot me…”

He was laying down. When had that happened?

His back hurt. Oh, god. The pain was like a black horse, bearing down on him. Thud. Thud. Thud. That was his heartbeat. It throbbed in his ears and behind his eyelids.

He shifted a little, trying to look around. “... need t’ get inside…” There was so much blood.

“We’re fine, baby, you just hold on, okay, hold on, help is coming…”

Bucky couldn’t raise his hand. Everything was numb and heavy, like laying under a blanket of snow. Soft and cold and heavy. “... love you…”

“No, no, Bucky, come on, don’t you fucking leave me, don’t you dare, goddamnit where’s that ambulance?”

“... tony.”

 


	10. Fruit of Our Labors

“... 29 year old male, Caucasian…”

“Applying pressure, where is all this --”

“... cutting him out of this… what is this?” The EMT held up a pair of mangled safety scissors.

Tony blinked, glanced up. “Stark Secure body armor,” he said. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from Bucky’s hand. He was secured in the gurney, face-down so the EMTs could work. His hand was limp, dangling over the side like a pale starfish. Blood dripped down his skin from the shoulder, travelled in thick rivulets over his wrist, and splattered onto the floor of the ambulance. “You won’t be able to cut it. There are velcro closures on the right and left sides.”

“What the hell is it made of?” The EMT was still holding her scissors like a child she was mourning for.

“Cellulose nanocrystals,” Tony responded. He’d been primary in inventing them; part of his Materials and Processes 417 class project that Howard had jumped on, tossed over to R&D with a muttered “guess that’s what I’m paying for” about Tony’s classwork.

The ballistics resistant material was in testing phases, still, but Tony had liberated a few pieces for Bucky’s personal use. If nothing else, they were lighter and more breathable than a standard tactical BPV. Made from plant fiber and coated with molecular crystals, the Stark Secure was supposed to be the better option; the best option. Certainly more protection by the pound, more protection for the dollar. That was supposed to be what it was.

“I’ve got a blood pressure of about 70 over fuck you,” another reported. “Not registering. He’s already deep in shock.”

“No, seriously, you think?”

Someone peeled back the tactical vest, cut away Bucky’s stained tee underneath, dripping with blood. Not… not as much blood as Tony might have expected. He held onto that hope.

That hope lasted about two minutes until Tony got a look at the fucking _hole_ in Bucky’s back. Furious red and black at least the size of Tony’s fists together, just to the right of his spine. Damnit, it couldn’t have hit where the arm and plates already were? Some of that would have deflected--

Blood welled, and the EMT covered it with a thick pad, putting pressure down. Tony would have thought Bucky too out of it to feel pain, but he groaned, thick and guttural. More blood dripped out of his mouth.

“Ok, he’s as stable as we’re getting,” one of the EMTs reported. “Let’s get this bus going before this poor bastard is a DOA.”

“... non-responsive to verbal, BP still not registering…”

“Pulse is weak…”

“... eavy deformity to the upper back, Behind-Armor, Blunt Trauma, bleeding as expected. Pulse 45, respiration rapid, thirty-five. Full spinal immobilization including C-Collar in place per BLS protocol, O2 via NRB at 12LPM. ETA five minutes.”

The two guys in the back nudged around Tony, and one of them poked him, hard, in the shoulder and indicated that he should grab onto a strap. Tony did his best to get out of their way.

Bucky had stopped making noise. He barely seemed to be breathing, although the paramedics didn’t seem too upset by that. Tony looked down at his lap, bracing his feet on the rough metal of the ambulance. There was blood on his pants, his tie. His hands.

Literally, blood on his hands.

Tony had looked through the various ballistics material when developing the nanocrystals; the theory was sound. Tests on dummies had provided a lot of good information. But that wasn’t the same as a flesh and blood human. He wasn’t even sure testing had gotten as far as the gelatin-stuffed proto-test models, the ones that imitated the surface tension -- if not as far as bones and interior organs -- of humans.

What the _hell_ was he thinking, letting Bucky be a first live-fire exercise? Not that Tony had any intentions that Bucky be fired upon, but wasn’t the motto safe, rather than sorry? He thought it might be something like that. Of course, Tony’s personal motto was more like run before crawling, so there was always room for improvement, and even with --

The ambulance jerked to a stop and the EMT shoved Tony against the wall in their hurry to get Bucky out of the back and into the med bay, which Tony thoroughly approved of.

He hopped down, but at that point, someone else caught him by the elbow. “We’ll take really good care of him, Mr. Stark,” someone said. “But for right now, we need you out of the way. Let the doctors do their jobs.”

Tony found himself standing on the pavement, just outside the Emergency Entrance, not quite knowing what to do. Not alone, exactly. There were people around, but they were people who were utterly and completely unconcerned with Tony. Other emergency cases came in and EMT teams wandered around. For people who were in the medical health industry, Tony took note of the fact that many of them smoked cigarettes. He overheard a conversation between two drivers, talking about the problematic drivers who refused to get out of the way; that could kill someone, and Tony found himself absently plotting a new grid-traffic system that could be controlled from dispatch, to clear holes. He brought out his phone, tapped a few notes and sent it away to R&D.

Eventually it occurred to him that there might be paperwork or red tape that Bucky needed to have cut or filled out. As Bucky’s technical employer, as well as his boyfriend, he could assist there.

Tony was always at his best when he had something to do to keep him from dwelling on everything that had happened.

But by the time he made his way around to the check-in and visitor’s section, Jenn had arrived on site. She covered him immediately.

“We don’t know what happened to the shooter,” she confessed, bustling him into the hospital, and then directing him to a private waiting room. That seemed unfair, somehow. It wasn’t that everyone else loved their relations more, or were more important, but that the same time, “no, this is best, Mr. Stark, if someone comes after you for a second chance, we don’t want indiscriminate firing in the lobby, someone entirely uninvolved could get hurt.”

Tony let her lead him away. The white walls of the room -- some spare patient consultation thing, covered with advertisements for pills and diagrams of how the body worked -- were clean, but somehow sad. Jenn checked the exits, pulled the blinds all the way shut.

The whole thing felt very surreal, like Tony wasn’t actually here, wasn’t actually in his body at all. That he was still in front of the restaurant, Bucky’s blood on his hands. “I did this,” he said, looking down. Somewhere, someone had gotten him wiped off, a bit, but his jacket and shirt were still stained and Tony wasn’t sure he could handle it any longer.

“Can you--” He held his hands out for Jenn to see.

Jenn nodded, already on her cellphone. “I’ve pulled together some of your security team,” she said. “They’re on their way in, including Bain, I know you find her a comfort. They’ll bring you a change of clothes and a bit of a way to clean up. It’ll be a while before we know anything, but I’m prepared to stay, if you want to. Anything longer than sixteen hours, however, and we’ll need to relocate you to a safer place, all right, Mr. Stark?”

Was there a safer place?

Tony hadn’t wanted to spend his life ruled by fear, but it wasn’t his life that he was spending anymore, was it?

He nodded, listlessly. “When Bain gets here, see what news you can get, okay, please?”

He collapsed into the flimsy plastic chair, let his face sink into his hands. Smelled Bucky’s blood on him.

***

Bucky woke up screaming for Tony.

And then he was just screaming.

Pain. Oh, god. Pain. And he was strapped down. He could barely move, and yet he struggled against restraints. His left arm was totally numb, worthless. And his right was on fucking fire.

_No. no please, not the other arm._

Bucky could barely turn his head; pain radiated up his spine. He was still screaming, struggling. There were voices and nurses, and the smell of medical antiseptic. Someone was saying his name, but he couldn’t listen, because where the fuck was Tony, where was he?

A cotton smell and the fluff feel at the back of his throat, and he… garlic taste flooded his mouth...

darkness...

tony…

_ow_.

The second waking was a little less frantic, although pain still clouded everything, hanging over it like thick blankets on the clothesline. Bucky fought his way through to the light; opened his eyes.

It wasn’t too hard to recognize a hospital room. They sucked.

The bed was uncomfortable and his back ached where he was slumped over; not quite reclining, certainly not laying down.

He was covered in tubes; a cannula was looped around his ears, blowing too-dry, too cold oxy-mix up his nose. Two IVs were jammed up in his arm -- at least his arm was still there, thank god, he remembered a burst of panic and black terror that he’d lost his other arm. A thicker tube lay against his hip and the less he knew about where that one went, the happier he’d probably be.

Dozens of monitors and measuring tools were stuck all over him; he resembled nothing more than a tasty fly, waiting for a spider.

As awareness trickled back, the noises were regular, but annoying. A blood pressure cuff inflated itself, squeezing his thigh. Between the IVs and his artificial arm, he guessed they didn’t have room for it elsewhere. Each time it squeezed, it tugged unpleasantly on his leg hair; he was going to have a bruise and a bunch of plucked hairs when they got done with him.

He twisted his neck, trying to see; his right arm was cuffed with a padded leather restraint, held down. The left one unmoving -- he’d been in the hospital before, they probably turned the fucking thing off. The nerve-cluster in the back of his brain that let him feel pressure and operate the device wasn’t pinging, so it probably wasn’t malfunctioning.

No call button.

Fuck, what the hell was he supposed to do now?

Spiraling up into a panic again seemed to be the answer; the heartbeat monitor picked up on his distress first, and then his breathing got erratic.

There was pain, but pain was secondary.

_Where the fuck was Tony?_

Was Tony okay?

Why… why wasn’t he here?

He turned his head, watched the heartrate monitor go up, and up again until it was beeping with distress. This wasn’t the military where the philosophy was, if you’re on the table, you’re important, and if you’re not, you probably won’t die in the next six hours. A civilian facility had some sort of quality control, right?

His breath jerked in and out of his lungs. He couldn’t breathe through his nose; his mouth dropped open and he took great gasping breaths. His mouth was so dry, thick and cottony. His tongue and teeth were coated with sticky and he couldn’t work up any spit.

The blood pressure cuff activated again, squeezing. An alarm went off for that, too; he could barely read the numbers, but he was pretty sure that was high. Better than low, he supposed.

A strange bubble of calm stayed there in the center of his head while all the other parts of his body checked into Hotel High Anxiety.

He took another few breaths, then fell back on the bed. He couldn’t maintain that level of anxiety, he was too damn exhausted. And then he was in too much pain. Everything hurt. Literally. He went through from nose to toes and couldn’t find a single thing on his body that didn’t ache, throb, pulse, or sent shooting sparks up his nerves.

Pattern recognition was a thing Bucky did; being in the military so long, everything happened in chunks of time. After a while, despite the erratic breathing and the stupidly excessive heart rate, the blood pressure cuff was going off rhythmically. Every fifteen minutes, it squeezed his thigh.

Which gave him some sort of measurement of the passage of time. He drifted off from time to time, waking to blink and wonder all over again where he was, why he hurt so much. Was it night? He couldn’t tell, the ward wasn’t quiet, but hospitals never were. The light under the door was brilliant and he could see feet pass by from time to time.

Eventually, seven times he could recall the machine checking his BP, the door slid open a crack and a shadow moved inside.

His heart rate spiked again, and then the shadow separated itself, stepping into the vague light from machines and monitors.

“Tony.”

Bucky’s voice was barely a croak, a shaking whisper rattle. He wasn’t even sure it was a complete word, but Tony, oh, god, there he was. All rumpled hair and wearing an MIT sweatshirt and looking like he just rolled out of bed. The most beautiful thing Bucky had ever seen.

“Oh, god.” And Tony was there, at his side, fingers absently plucking at the blue and flowered hospital gown that Bucky was wearing. Bucky leaned his head as far as he could to one side until Tony took the hint and brushed his hand down the side of Bucky’s face.

Bucky licked his lips; there wasn’t any spit in his mouth at all, and the sound his tongue made was raspy, alien. Lizard-like. “Water?” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, there were so many things that Bucky wanted to say instead, like how relieved he was that Tony wasn’t shot, that Tony was the most precious thing in the world to him, and that Bucky was just so damn happy that he was okay, that everything was fine. But he didn’t have the breath for that anyway, and his mouth and throat were screaming for something to drink.

“Uh,” Tony muttered, staring around. The room was mostly dark, the most light crept in from around the door, but eventually Tony found a tray on the far side of the room with a styrofoam cup. He rattled it, and the sound of ice and slushie water swirling in it send flames up through Bucky’s throat.

Tony unfolded a plastic straw and stuck it in the cup. “Just a little, baby,” he said. “I don’t know if they’re gonna want you for a surgery.”

The half-sip or so that Bucky managed before just leaning forward enough to let the straw touch his mouth was gone too soon. And yet, he fell back against the mattress, trying to suppress his groan of agony.

Everything hurt. His fucking shoulder hurt worst, pain that spiraled up from his fingertips, wrapped around his arm like concertina wire, scissoring and fresh and silver, all the way up. “Why’s my head hurt?” Bucky asked. It wasn’t like he could check anything. He could barely move, and his arm was strapped down.

Tony made a face -- Bucky wasn’t even sure there was a name for the expression that twisted up Tony’s mouth. “You got shot, baby.”

Essense of _no, really._

“Yeah, got that,” Bucky said. He licked at his mouth again; now that there was spit there, he was a little more conscious about how nasty his mouth felt. Coppery and full of cotton. His teeth were coated with a scrim of plaque. Still, his head hurt. Not like a headache -- although he’d be a fucking liar if he said he didn’t have a headache. That would have been bad enough, but there was a stinging, slicing pain, just above the back of his neck.

It wasn’t the pain, although that was bad enough in its own right. The sick, blinding fear that he’d lost the use of his right arm -- and that hadn’t even let go, not a little bit, it crouched at the back of his mind like a feral animal, ready to bite and pounce and tear if he took his eyes off it for a second. Now that he had eyes on Tony, some of the despair was gone. But at the same time, he couldn’t see himself.

A doctor hadn’t been in to see him, and Bucky was hovering over a pit of ignorance. He had no idea how bad his injuries were. The look on Tony’s face, a skittering of his gaze, alternating with the way he stared at Bucky’s face, it couldn’t have been good.

And Bucky was a coward. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to _ask_.

“The shooter--”

“Don’t you worry about that, honey,” Tony said. He couldn’t seem to stop touching Bucky, his face, the side of his neck, fingers dancing down Bucky’s chest. Even though it hurt, each touch and tap were like having the apple-soft center of a bruise poked, Bucky couldn’t ask him to stop. Didn’t want him to stop. Wished he had his arm free, so he could return the favor. Each drop of pain was just a little more realism.

“Don’t-- don’t worry? Tony, you’re still at risk, and I’m… stuck here and --” he struggled against his injuries, the tie-down. He didn’t mean to, but it was…

dark

slithered around him like snake...

***

The next time Bucky was aware that he was awake -- according to the one nurse that he talked to some time in the deep early morning, he’d been drifting in and out for several days now, not a thing that made him happy, and that sometimes he was awake and aware, but that he wasn’t absorbing those conversations, so every time he woke up, they were having to go through it again -- the straps on his arm were gone, but his arm still hurt so much that moving it was torture.

He did have a call-button, though, so he pressed it.

“Mr. Barnes,” the nurse said, efficient and cheerful. She gave him a few sips of ginger-ale that sat unpleasantly on his stomach for a bit before his body decided to let him have it. “You came out of surgery well, how are you feeling?”

“Surgery?”

“Your acromioclavicular joint was separated, and you have three distinct scapula fractures. On the plus side, Mr. Barnes, since we were in there anyway, the doctor took the liberty of upgrading your bracing hardware for the prosthetic. Once you’re back to seventy percent, at least, you should notice some better movement, and certainly less pain. Technically, we did it to make sure that therapy on the opposite arm was effective. But, consider it like a bonus.”

The way the nurse laughed, Bucky didn’t have to wonder what his expression looked like. “The shooter?”

His nurse glanced at him. “You are single-minded,” she said.

No, Bucky thought. It was just that he didn’t remember. He knew someone had told him, but between the pain medications and the surgeries, he wasn’t holding on to information. There was something vaguely wrong with that, something that made him desperately uneasy, but he couldn’t even hold onto it long enough to get his fret on.

“Just tell me,” Bucky said.

The nurse checked a few of his vitals, humming thoughtfully. “They think it was that boy,” she said, finally. “That college football player, the--”  then pressed her hand to Bucky’s chest as he surged forward.

“Rumlow,” Bucky said. _Ow_. Why did she have to shove him like that.

“That’s the one. Stay put, Mr. Barnes.”

His heartrate was already spiking, blood pressure cuff doing its thing.

That didn’t make any sense; what the hell would Rumlow gain from murdering Tony now? He was already out of school, just because Tony was dead, it -- ow, fuck, there went his chest again, just thinking of Tony dead and cold and unmoving was enough to ache -- wouldn’t change _anything_. Not for Rumlow, at least.

“That’s stupid,” Bucky finally managed to say.

The nurse sighed, pulled an injection kit from her pocket. “You keep saying that,” she said. She stared at him, her eyes huge and wide and somehow not quite innocent. “Why do you think that? Did you see something, the day of the hit?”

“Huh?” Why the hell would a nurse care about something like that? He was vaguely befuddled that she knew even that much about it; although he supposed if he’d asked about it a few times, some of the shift-staff might have gotten the run down, just to answer the questions.

“Oh well,” she said. She tapped the needle a few times. “You’re well compromised by this point. No one’s gonna believe anything you say, even if you saw anything at all. Head wound, brain damage. Mental trauma. Not a reliable witness.” She pulled the cap off the kit and took a step to the side.

Something cold slithered into Bucky’s belly. “What are you doing?”

“It’s just for the pain, Mr. Barnes,” she said. “Once you get excitable like that, you--”

“No,” Bucky said, firmly. Didn’t a nurse, a real nurse, flush the site with saline before injecting anything into the shunt? Why… why couldn’t he remember anything for more than one waking period at a time.

He looked more closely at the nurse.

“Bain.”

She sighed. “Don’t draw too many conclusions, Mr. Barnes,” she said. “You’ll blow my cover, and that’ll make me cranky. If you just stay asleep, all of this will be over, and I don’t really want to kill you. Too much mess to cover up.”

Bucky struggled, but he was so weak, and everything hurt so much.

“Don’t worry,” Sunset Bain said. “You don’t have to be afraid. You won’t even remember this…”

That was precisely what Bucky _was_ worried about.

What had she said, earlier, about the bracing hardware; they’d updated his arm, his prosthetic?

Bucky twitched, just barely heard the servos in his left arm and stilled his fingers again. He let a low, helpless whimper escape from his throat. “Please…”

“He’s not worth all this, I hope you know that,” she said, coming closer. “Spoiled little rich boy; he has no idea what he’s doing, the company is infinitely more valuable to the lives of our American soldiers without him behind the wheel. You should appreciate that, Mr. Barnes. There’s no need for you to have been so injured. Drone soldiers, they’re the way to go.”

“Is that how you shot Tony? With a drone?”

“Ah, well, there are some satisfactions to my work, a little personal touch, that means so much.”

Braced. Waiting.

She stepped closer, needle out. She reached for the shunt, pressed the tip of the needle into the soft plastic ring.

Bucky twisted.

Oh, fuck. Everything lit on fire; his spine, his arm, his shoulder.

But he twisted anyway.

Got the full use of his hips behind it, swinging the prosthetic up and over; he could barely bend his elbow, so it wasn’t a punch, just a heavy blow, the full weight of steel alloy and plastics underneath. He’d had to learn to move it, it was so damned heavy when he’d first gotten it, he’d walked lopsided for months.

Bain shrieked in surprise as he rolled, but she’d been caught unaware.

The sound she made when the arm struck her was small, almost a whimper, and she went down in a splatter of blood and a crunch of bone.

Bucky screamed. The pins and supports in his spine were electic agony as the weight of the arm, still mostly immobile, pulled and yanked at him.

Call button. Call button.

Bucky fumbled, felt something tear in his shoulder. Found the remote and mashed it.

There were footsteps, running. He didn’t care.

Bain was struggling, weakly, on the floor. Squirming. Trying to crab away.

Whatever was in that syringe… foggy, fading… Bucky shifted again, grabbed hold of the IV tube with his teeth, as close to the site as he could manage. Bent the tube in his mouth and bit down.

He…

darkness...

***

“You’re so fired,” Tony said.

Bucky was struggling with the fog and disorientation that came from yet another round of surgeries.

This time, at least, he’d woken up with Tony’s hand firmly in his, with his prosthetic alive and buzzing with new information. With a brightly lit room and a feeling of safety.

“Why?”

“Why, he asks?”

Behind Tony, Jenn Walters gave Bucky a thumbs up, then slipped out of the room.

“Because I don’t think I can go through this again, baby,” Tony said. He pushed Bucky’s hair away from his face. “I know, I know, your month’s been worse, but this may well have been the worst week of my life.”

“Did I miss anything new?” Bucky asked.

The on-again, off-again memory loss bothered him more than he knew how to say. Every time he woke up in the morning, hospital walls around him, someone had to fill him in. Repeat everything that had happened since that bullet struck the vest.

Bain… she’d fucked him up, but good.

“We got Bain to roll on her boss,” Tony said. “She’ll do ten, with time off for good behavior. Probably back out on the streets in seven. I’m not entirely happy with that, but her face is all over the papers, so hopefully she won’t be able to snow anyone else as thoroughly as she’s done to us. It’s hard to be an assassin if everyone knows what you look like.”

Bucky managed a very painful shrug. “There’s surgeries. And other countries.”

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” Tony said. He swallowed hard. “Turned out, she was being financed by Obadiah Stane.”

“Your _godfather_?”

The look that flittered across Tony’s face was both pain and annoyance. He’d probably told Bucky this before. “Yeah. Turned out, he was behind my parents, too. That third body? One of his stooges that was supposed to make sure my parents were dead after a hitman slammed into their car. He got run over by accident. If the hitman hadn’t left the body behind, we might never have had enough warning…”

Bucky made a small, soft sound. He didn’t think he could bear it, if something had happened to Tony. Knew he couldn’t have.

“So what’s this got to do with why I’m off th’ job?”

“I have a new job for you,” Tony said, brushing invisible wrinkles out of his tee.

Bucky’s eyebrow went up. “Do you?”

“Well, I suppose the question is, more, will _you_?” Tony reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. The kind that everyone knew. Bucky heard the heart rate monitor speed up, echoed by the feeling of his pulse in his ears and throat.

Tony cracked the lid, and the ring was Tony, all the way. Golden metal swirling around rubies, the band thick enough that if Bucky put it on his hand, it’d cover from knuckle to knuckle. Not ostentatious, but obviously expensive. Tasteful.

Bucky cleared his throat, a rumbling sort of cough, and then, he thought, maybe he could breathe again.

“Ohgod.”

There went that eyebrow again.

“You’ve asked me before,” Bucky said, suddenly.

“Yes,” Tony said.

“Have I turned you down yet?” He knew that answer, of course. He never, ever would. Tony was his whole life.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Tony said, shrugging like it didn’t matter.

“I may not be able t’ hold onto my mind,” Bucky said, shuddering a little, “but what’s in my heart, Tony? That ain’t gonna change. Yes. You already know it. Yes.”

 


	11. Scent of Fall(ing Prices)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first section is smut, after the break is fluff.
> 
> Y'all need a break.
> 
> Screw it! I needed a break! HOMG!

Bucky picked up his book, opening to the page and pretended that he’d been reading all along, instead of anxiously waiting for Tony to get home from class.

He’d been quite serious about firing Bucky from his job as Tony’s bodyguard, and while Bucky had pretty much ignored that, he couldn’t hover over Tony all the time. There was some vague hope that the actual physical danger would die out, now that Stane was behind bars. Bucky had been pretty anxious about that, too, but Stane had been denied bail several times. Not that he was considered a flight risk, although he was, but that he was considered a risk to _Tony_.

By the time Tony climbed the stairs and threw his backpack in the recliner, Bucky was mostly composed, looking like he’d spent the day doing nothing more than a little cleaning of their apartment, and reading a book. He’d read it a few times before, but Tony didn’t need to know that, and if he’d stared at the page without seeing a thing, that wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted Tony, sticking the bookmark back in his book and laying it aside. “Come give me a kiss.”

Tony appeared to consider that. “No.”

Bucky blinked, surprised and not a little bit hurt. “Okaaay?”

“If I let myself kiss you right now, I don’t think I could be content with just one. There’d be a second one, and a third and before you know it, I’d be fucking you on the sofa and your sister would _kill us_ , because I’m pretty sure she’s coming home after rehearsal tonight.”

Bucky learned how to breathe again. “Yeah, what, you think I got no willpower? Or sense of self-preservation?”

Tony licked his lip, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he tried to suppress a grin. “Didn’t say that,” Tony pointed out. “Pretty sure it’s me with the lack of willpower.”

“Right.” Bucky nodded. “Well, c’mere for a second, I cannot take you seriously when you look like that.”

“Huh?”

“What’d you do, sleep in class? Your hair’s a disaster.”

Tony scowled, running both hands through his hair, finger combing the locks into place. “Better?”

“No,” Bucky said, frankly.

Tony slumped over to the sofa and dropped down in front of Bucky. “So, fix it.”

 _Jackpot_. Bucky leaned forward, but rather than messing with Tony’s hair, which had always been perfect, he cupped his hand around the back of Tony’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. As always, the touch of Tony’s lips affected him like a lightening strike. Tony made a low, surrendering sound in the back of his throat as his body went pliant in Bucky’s arms. Oh God, Tony’s mouth was so lush and divine. Protests aside, he was kissing Bucky back with willful determination. There was no way in hell Tony was going to pull back now, and Bucky wanted him, so bad.

Bucky fought to contain the sensations that flooded him; Tony was right that if Tash found them in a compromising position, she’d have a fit. (And rightfully so; Bucky didn’t really want to walk in on her and her lovers, either.)

His shaky grasp on his self-control lasted all of about a minute before Tony was straddling his lap and Bucky was moaning into Tony’s mouth. Breath speeding, Bucky kissed Tony again, and again, licking into his mouth, memorizing the shape of his lips. His hands were twining in Tony’s hair, thumb running down the side of Tony’s jaw.

Bucky rocked his hips, pushing up, seeking friction and heat. Tony responded with a raw, unconscious sensuality that devastated Bucky. An agonizing blend of desire and physical hunger, emotional need… Tony’s hands slid under Bucky’s shirt, teasing at his skin. Every inch of his body was responding to Tony’s touch. He wanted, he _wanted_.

Wanted Tony’s mouth, wanted his body, his hands all over Bucky’s flesh.

“Bed,” he managed to say, tearing his mouth off Tony’s. “Go, go _now_.”

“I’d have to let go of you,” Tony pointed out. He brushed his mouth gently over Bucky’s lips and Bucky whined. “But if you insist.”

The apartment had never seemed so large.

Bucky found himself kissed again, halfway down the hall. Tony’s shirt vanished; Bucky nearly tripped over their shoes, and his jeans were practically down his thighs before Tony closed the bedroom door behind them.

Finally, _finally_.

Tony turned to lock the door and Bucky embraced him from behind, sliding one hand down the front of Tony’s half-opened jeans, cupping him.

“Oh, God,” Tony said. He rocked back into the touch, his perfect ass rubbing against Bucky’s groin. “Yeah, baby, you…”

Every slow circle of Tony’s hips was torture; Bucky was so hard, so sensitized to every touch. Tony turned in his arms to kiss him again, rub against him until Bucky backed him against the door. Tony pulled him in, close, opening his mouth for another kiss. Bucky moaned in satisfaction, welcoming the heat of Tony’s mouth. The tip of Tony’s tongue slid between his lips, exploring with slow, deliberate strokes, kissed him as if he was stealing secrets, ravaged Bucky’s mouth with exquisite gentleness.

Hungrily, Bucky yanked Tony’s pants the rest of the way open, went to his knees. Rubbed his cheek against Tony’s thigh. Tony’s hands went into Bucky’s hair, closed on the long strands, sending prickles of sensation over his scalp. “Come on, sweetheart, want you, want your mouth on me.” His breath was a ragged gasp, as if he’d been running for miles.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed.

Tony struggled to step out of his jeans. His boxers ended up ‘round one ankle, too hasty, too needy to step all the way out of them, and Bucky licked, a long, sustained tease, starting at the base of Tony’s cock, slow and sensual until Tony was biting at his lip and his head banged against the door, exposing his throat.

The strangled noises he was making as Bucky licked, lapped, sucked were raw, greedy. They set Bucky on fire. His thoughts burned, flame and ash, until he was broiling with heat. His cock throbbed and ached in time with his heartbeat. He tugged and licked at Tony’s dick, tasting the salt of his precome, the musky maleness of Tony’s skin.

“No, no, not yet, honey,” Tony said. “Want… want it to last.” Tony was shuddering and his hands were tight in Bucky’s hair, not letting go.

Bucky nuzzled at the base of Tony’s cock, dancing his tongue along the velvet skin of Tony’s balls. Sucked one into his mouth, gently, listening to Tony whimper. He pulled back. “You’re the one holdin’ me down,” he pointed out.

Tony groaned, then let go.

Bucky took one last taste; so hard to resist Tony’s cock when it was right there, just aching and waiting to be adored.

Somehow, Tony shoved and pushed and demanded, and Bucky was naked, on his back on the bed, Tony straddled across his hips. Tony bent down until he was resting his forehead on Bucky’s, their breath mingling. “Oh, God,” Tony said, “how I love you.”

The weight of Tony over his thighs was making Bucky shiver with need, the heat of his skin pouring over Bucky’s body like a benediction. Instinctively, Bucky rolled up into that heat, rubbing, thrusting up. “Come on, baby, love me if you love me.”

Tony kissed him, was devouring him, each lick and movement of his lips accompanied by a soft moan. Bucky couldn’t tell anymore, who was crying out. He was so hot, so… Tony slithered lower, pushed Bucky’s legs apart. And then Bucky was all but sobbing with need as Tony teased at his hole. “Get me the--”

Bucky groaned, trying to find the lube on the headboard shelf, groping around blindly. Tony’s mouth came down on him, enclosing him in slick, wet heat. “Oh, god, oh…” Bucky gasped and writhed; found the damn lube and all but threw it at Tony.

“Gonna treat you so right, sweetheart,” Tony assured him.

“Know you are, baby,” Bucky answered, trying to hold himself down as Tony prepped him. Oh, god, that was so slick and fine; it ached and burned as Tony’s fingers spread him. The pads of his fingers teased at the opening to Bucky’s body. Bucky couldn’t help but clench down, body fighting the intrusion, muscles fluttering with it. Tony let out of a puff of air against his belly, and then he was sucking Bucky’s cock, swallowing it down, while his fingers continued to probe and press.

Tony pushed all the way in, two fingers all the way to the base, stroked inside Bucky’s body as his muscles twitched and squeezed. Tony rocked him, hand moving and wrist turning, his tongue delivering brilliant pleasure to Bucky’s cock until he groaned and the resistance let go, letting Tony in.

“That’s just right, sweetheart, that’s perfect,” Tony said. “You’re so gorgeous, so hot, so tight. I could watch you like this for _hours_.”

It certainly _seemed_ like hours, Tony fucking him with his fingers. Using his mouth on Bucky, until he was sprawled wantonly over the bed, legs as wide as he could get them, hips rising and falling with each push of Tony’s hand. Bucky concentrated on the deep slide of Tony’s fingers, the wet heat of his mouth, pleasure coiling around his spine. He lost awareness of everything except Tony, the delicious friction, the way his hand stroked and played him, the heavy weight of Tony’s body over him.

Bucky was soaked with sweat, shivering. His back seemed permanently arched off the bed as Tony teased and tormented him, getting him close, so damn close and then slowing down until Bucky was whining, writhing.

“Tony,” he whimpered. “Tony, please…”

“What, Bucky, what is it?”

“God, you’re cruel,” Bucky protested. “Come on, come on, I can’t take it anymore… please, baby, _give it to me_.” His voice cracked and broke.

Tony seemed to be waiting for that, Bucky’s utter and complete surrender to Tony’s control.

“Yeah, okay,” Tony said. Tony made a soft, aching groan as he pushed himself against Bucky’s open hole. “You want this, honey, is that it?” Tony was stroking over Bucky’s hole, pushing against his perineum, brushing over the base of his balls.

Bucky raised his hips, trying to tempt Tony in. “Yes, yes, yes, Tony, god, yes,” he panted.

“Hold still,” Tony said, pushing one of Bucky’s legs back, bracing himself against Bucky’s thigh.

Bucky shivered, nodded. Tony entered him, pushed past that ring of muscle. He arched his hips, Bucky felt the thick head pass into him, and then Tony just… fucking. Stayed there. Maybe an inch deep, not enough to do anything for Bucky except drive him mad with frustration. He whined, twisted against Tony. “Come on, come on, Tony, Tony, _please_ ,” he begged.

Tony let out a breath. He rocked his hips and then slid in, deliberate and devastating, one inch at a time until he was fully seated, his balls against Bucky’s ass. “Oh, god, _Bucky_ ,” Tony said.

“Yeah, that’s it, that’s… Tony, Tony,” Bucky was shuddering, sweat pouring off his body. So hot that his skin ached with it.

And then Tony was moving, thrusting in, pounding into Bucky, rocking against him. Bucky locked his legs around Tony’s hips, heels digging into Tony’s back, encouraging him.

Bucky arched up into it, crying out as Tony hit him just right, and then jackhammered into him as soon as the pitch of Bucky’s moans changed. Throbbing with need, Bucky’s cock bobbed between them, leaking precome.

Tony’s mouth came down on his again, tongue mimicking each stroke.

Bucky’s balls were tight, hot, almost painful with the need to come, almost as if he could feel each individual sperm swimming around in there, looking for a way out. He reached down, touched himself. Jerked at the sensation. Tony caught his hand, forced it to slow. Tony’s fingers were still slick with lube and when he brushed against Bucky’s dick, it was sweet, sweet bliss.

“Yeah, do it,” Tony murmured. “Come with my cock in you, know you want to, feel you squeezing down on me.”

Tony’s rich voice, purring in his ear, sent Bucky, moaning, over the edge. Everything in him tensed and clenched. He shivered and shuddered. Let go.

He came with a white-hot rush, mouth gaping open, unable to make a sound, barely able to breathe. He didn’t know how he could take it, so much pleasure. He arched back, clinging to Tony’s shoulders as if to keep himself from falling to pieces.

Tony groaned, his cock pulsed deep inside of Bucky, who was still spurting and dribbling. Come pooled on his chest, ran down his ribs. Tony pushed into him a few more times, everything loose and wet and slick suddenly. Bucky nearly wailed; he was so overstimulated, so exhausted, so well-fucked, he almost couldn’t bear the movement, but was too overwhelmed to do anything more.

“Oh, god,” Tony said. He kissed Bucky one more time, more affection than lust, and pulled out. Bucky grimaced; come leaked out of his ass and spilled over his thighs. Didn’t matter much. He couldn’t move so much as his little finger; Tony had utterly, utterly wrecked him.

Tony cuddled up to him, slung his leg over Bucky’s thighs, and Bucky clung to him, turning his face into the crook of Tony’s throat. He might have slept. A little.

“So, I was thinking--” Tony started.

“There you go, thinking again,” Bucky interrupted. He shifted a little uncomfortably; his thighs were damp and he was laying in the wet spot, and if Tony was about to start waxing eloquent, he’d probably be here for a while. “Lemme get us cleaned up, and then you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

Being Tony, and because he couldn’t possibly shut up -- it was charming, if sometimes exhausting -- he talked even while Bucky was walking to the bathroom.

“Look, Halloween’s coming up, and--” Tony paused, and in that pause, Bucky heard a lot of anxiety. Whatever was on Tony’s mind, he was afraid.

“Yeah?”

“You know,” Tony said, twisting around in the bed a few times, “I don’t think… look, I… after Jan’s…”

“You don’t want to be around people in masks,” Bucky guessed. It wasn’t a difficult connection to make; Tony’s assault back in March at Jan’s masquerade ball and all the various shit that Tony had been dealing with -- bad dreams and a half-dozen reactions to the trauma -- going to another costume party was bound to be triggering as shit.

There were some people who believed that you should just get back on the horse, so to speak, and get the fuck over it. As far as Bucky was concerned, those people could go straight to Hell. If he never saw that mix of terror and loathing and humiliation in Tony’s eyes again, it would be too soon. Anything Bucky could do, to keep Tony both actually safe and feeling safe, he would do.

“Yeah,” Tony said. He pulled himself up into a seated position, the sheet draped around him, curling his arms around his knees. It was a defensive posture; everything about Tony screamed that he expected derision. Bucky tried not to take it personally, even if he would _never_. Too much betrayal, and Tony kept expecting the rug yanked out from under him all the time.

All Bucky could do was be there, be a solid safe place.

Tony would recover in his own time. It couldn’t be rushed, or forced.

“Hey, baby,” Bucky said, “it’s okay. I’m okay with jus’ turning out the porch light, watching a movie, and cuddling on the sofa. Or, you know, we could go hang out with Tash; the troup’s in town, practicing for their next tour. Watchin’ them do the same thirty seconds of a song over an’ over again… or, you know, one of my old Army buddies has a bonfire party every year. Hayrides and S’mores and roasted apples and cider and music and jus’ hanging out. He’s got a hell of a lot of property upstate. No one ever goes in costume. I mean, I know it’s my friends, that you haven’t--”

“No, that sounds lovely, sweetheart,” Tony said. “I’ve. I’ve never done anything like that. New things, they… help?”

“Okay, then,” Bucky said. “I’ll take you upstate an’ we’ll roast marshmallows an’ maybe Dum’ll let us take the horses out for a ride or somethin’.”

“Dum?”

“Dum-Dum Dugan,” Bucky expanded. “His real name’s Tim, but-- well it’s a long story involving some court martial offenses. I’ll let Dugan tell you. He’s a hell of a story teller.”

“I look forward to being educated,” Tony said, as dryly as possible while lounging in bed, naked.

Bucky admired Tony’s poise. Sometimes. Under these particular circumstances, however, Bucky didn’t think he needed to put up with it. He gave Tony a long, heated look.

“What is that look-- no, no, _do not_ , I see you thinking--”

Tony lost it, giggling, as Bucky pounced on him, tore the sheet off him and blew raspberries on his stomach. It was a thin line and Bucky danced on it; Tony hated to be pinned down these days. Tony was a willing lover, but only when he was on top -- by no means a hardship for Bucky, who just liked to have his hands on Tony and please him as best he was able -- but he also got tense and unhappy if Bucky coddled him.

But for now, Tony was warm and happy and laughing in Bucky’s arms. And that was going to have to be good enough.

***

They’d packed the night before and as soon as his circuitry class was done, Tony was climbing into the driver’s seat and they were on the highway north before lunch. (He was totally blowing off his Cosmology class, which was fine, there was nothing in the syllabus that he hadn’t learned by the time he was twelve. Tony had a fascination for space, and he’d been studying the stars since he bought his first telescope. The professor probably wouldn’t even notice. Tony was the bane of some of his classmates’ existences, given that he blew any hope of a curve out of the water.)

All of which meant they were at Bucky’s friend’s -- ranch wasn’t the right word for it, but damn, it kinda looked like one, down to the horses in a paddock nearby -- by early afternoon. The house was a sprawling monstrosity that appeared to have had extra wings and rooms added onto it at whim, with little thought to coherent architecture or logic, and their host led them through a few public rooms and down a long corridor before arriving at a guest room.

“S’plannin’ to go for a ride,” Dum Dum said. He was already dressed for it, wearing a pair of dun-colored pants stuffed into polished knee-high boots and carrying a hat under one arm that looked like a batter’s helmet. “You wanna come?”

Tony had never been on (or even near) a horse in his entire life. He would have deferred, except that he happened to turn and he happened to see Bucky’s eyes light up with a spark of longing before he put on his best neutral expression. “Would you want to, baby?” he asked.

It almost broke Tony’s heart to realize just how much Bucky had been catering to Tony’s wants and fears. “Sure, why not?”

Which was how Tony found himself in a barn for the first time in his life.

There were friends and peers of his who were into horseback, but it’d never been a thing for Tony.

The barn was a simple thing, a huge open hall from one end to the other, with six little horsie rooms -- stalls, Dum Dum had called them -- on either side.The center broke way with another hall; on one side was grain storage and other items for horse care. The opposite room held tack and bridles, spare hard hats, crops and leads, and other things that Dum Dum pointed out and named and that Tony had utterly no idea what they were for.   

And he was utterly, utterly turned on by how beautiful Bucky looked when they strode into the barn finally. Tony’s ex-military fiance went all soft-spoken crooning and tender eyed at the beast that poked a nose over the door at him. Bucky extended a hand, flat out, for the horse, offering a few slices of apple, and it lipped at his palm, revealing enormous teeth.

“Don’t worry,” Dum Dum said. “Just keep your fingers flat, you’ll be fine.” He dropped a few slices of fruit into Tony’s hand. “Horse can’t see down ‘is nose. You’ll take Sunny here.”

Tony scowled at the horse, who looked nothing like a “Sunny” to him, being the faded gray of a dusty windowsill. “What kind of a name is Sunny?”

“Her name’s Misty Morning Sunrise,” Bucky piped up from where he was rubbing the neck of a yellow horse and letting the beast prod at him with its nose. “This one’s Amber Sultan, but just Sultan for short.”

“And this is Magic,” Dum Dum said, leading a dark, almost black horse out into the aisle, its inky coat speckled with white and gray freckles. The beast tossed a silvery mane and stared at Tony with eyes the same color as the edge of the sky at sunrise. “Ain’t he somethin’? Magic Minute, because he grew so fast when he was just a colt.”

Dum Dum went through some basic instructions on getting the horses ready to ride. It took a while; the back of the horse was way up there, and saddles weren’t exactly light, but Tony managed it, and while he was under the distinct impression that Sunny was rolling her eyes at him for his lack of grace, he managed to get her saddled up.

Dum had already thrown tack on Magic and he looped the reins around a hitch-post before coming over to fuss with Tony’s bridle, tighten up Bucky’s girth-strap.

“Put your hard hat on, young man,” Dum said over his shoulder.

“It’s ugly,” Tony complained.

Bucky tapped his own helmet down and buckled the chin strap before taking Tony’s away and pressing it on his head, squashing down Tony’s hair inside. “The most important thing in my life is between my hands right now,” he said, cupping Tony’s cheek. “I want you to take care of it.”

“You are such a dork,” Tony complained, even though he didn’t mean it. “And this is totally not sexy, I just want you to know that.”

“Fuck you,” Dum Dum said, from outside where he swung onto his horse like he’d been born in the saddle or some other western movie nonsense that Tony didn’t quite understand, because really. Horses? When you could have a sports car? Still… “Not smashing your brains in is way sexy.”

“So, they don’t call you Dum Dum because you took a tumble?”

“You haven’t earned that story,” Dum Dum said. “Let’s see how you keep your seat, and I’ll decide if you get to hear about it.”

Bucky scoffed and led Sultan out of the barn. “C’mere, I’ll give you a leg up,” he offered.

Tony stared at the side of the horse; really Sunny wasn’t all that tall, compared to Magic, who towered over both of the smaller, more delicate animals. Sixteen hands at the shoulder, is what Dum Dum had said about his mount, and Tony’s was at least eight inches shorter, enough that he could see over the horse’s back (withers, he corrected himself, because apparently horses had different words for their anatomy than people did… ridiculous words like frog -- the soft part of the inside of a horse’s hoof -- and fetlock, because there was something wrong with saying that a horse had knees!). Still, it was way up there, and Dum Dum had mounted so quick that Tony hadn’t been able to see how it was done.

Bucky dropped to one knee like he was an English lord, planning to propose, and cupped his hands. “Step onto my hand, I’ll lift you up. Throw your leg over the saddle and aim your foot for the far stirrup. And don’t yank on Sunny’s mane. She won’t thank you for that.”

Tony’d seen people get tossed in the saddle before in movies before, and this… this was nothing like that. He scrambled into the saddle with an extreme lack of grace, and the horse under him felt impossibly wide, his legs spread awkwardly. Bucky walked around, getting his foot in the stirrups for him. “Heels down. If your leg doesn’t burn in the calf, you’re not doing it right,” Bucky said. He patted Sunny’s side and went to his own mount.

Watching Bucky sling himself into the saddle was an erotic motion that Tony wouldn’t admit to finding appealing under pain of torture, but _holy shit._ He made a chirrupping sound in his throat and Sultan danced to the side.

“Stop showin’ off with my horses,” Dum Dum scolded him. He did… something. Moved his leg, and Magic stepped to, headed off wherever Dum Dum was taking them.

“Don’t worry about trying to steer or anything,” Bucky said. He directed his mount up to Sunny’s side, demonstrating the grip Tony should have on the reins. Sunny whickered and shoved her nose at Sultan. “Sunny likes home and her fellow horses, so she’ll just follow along. But if you have to direct her, pull back with one elbow, straight back, and she’ll move in that direction. Not too hard, you’ll hurt her mouth.”

The horse’s movement was nothing like smooth, each step was a soft sway, the sound of hooves was weirdly soothing. He did notice, almost immediately, that the other two riders were doing something with their horses; Tony didn’t know what, that kept them moving on at a fairly steady pace, while Sunny was loafing behind, but if she noticed that she was more than fifty paces behind, she’d step it up. That second, catch up sort of jog, was the worst thing Tony had ever experienced in his life, a rattling, jolting sort of gait that shuddered up his spine and punished his tailbone.

Bucky kept riding literal circles around him, while Sunny plodded on after Magic, giving tips and helpful instructions, including something called posting, which was supposed to ease the torture of that second pace -- the trot. Bucky demonstrated, lifting himself out of the saddle in time with the motion, keeping his ass from being beaten black and blue. “If these were western trained horses, we’d sit the trot, although they call it a jog, and western horses have an easier pace for that. The English think trotting looks proper, though.”

Posting was almost as bad as sitting; his ass wasn’t getting jolted, but his calves were getting a hell of a workout. “I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow,” Tony complained.

“Heh, okay,” Bucky said. “Wanna go faster? I promise, sitting a canter or a gallop is easier than it sounds. Plus, it’s fun.”

Tony groaned inwardly. What was wrong with him that he let that sparkle in Bucky’s stormcloud eyes challenge him to do something monumentally stupid?

“If she gets out of hand,” Bucky said, when Tony reluctantly nodded, “just start pulling the left rein in. She’ll be forced to go in a circle and she’ll slow down. If you just jerk back on the reins, she might toss you over her head. And that’s no fun.”

Dum Dum led them into a wide, open space, knee high grass on all sides. Bucky whooped, danced Sultan around like he was in the circus. Dum Dum smirked, and then the two of them were off, the horses moving into a swift trot, and then faster, and faster until Tony could barely see their legs moving.

Sunny whickered, then turned her head to peer at the rider behind her, not sure if the lump on her back actually wanted her to _run_ or not. “Sorry, horse,” Tony said. “You’re just stuck with me.”

Sunny shook her head, flopping her ears, and snorted. Even the horse thought Tony was ridiculous. And then, suddenly, she decided where she wanted to be was with the other two horses. Tony posted her trot, wincing at the sting in his legs, and then they were practically _flying_. Bucky was right, the pressure of gravity held him in the saddle, and he leaned forward, which just encouraged Sunny to go faster.

The grass disappeared into a pale yellow blur and Sunny thundered across the meadow.

Tony was pretty sure he’d left his heart laying on the ground somewhere behind them, but after he realized he wasn’t falling off, it was fun. Amazing. He was squeezing the horse with his thighs and he was pretty sure he’d pay for that, later, but the wind was in his ears and it was the most incredible sensation of raw power and cooperation with the horse under him.

He was grinning like a maniac by the time Sunny drew even with Magic and Sultan and rattled into a walk again.

“That… that was amazing!”

Bucky’s grin could have lit up the city. “Thought you might like that, babydoll.”

They didn’t stay out much longer, out of concerns for Tony’s muscles, which were already starting to protest the unfamiliar stretch. Bucky took him back to their bedroom not long after dinner and introduced him to the wonders of horse liniment.

“Based on the name, it’s either made out of horses, or it’s for the-- _oh, god!_ ” Bucky rubbed the sharp-scented goop into Tony’s back. The smell was medicinal, and the goo itself was a little sticky and unpleasant at first, but it heated nicely as Bucky worked it into his skin, soothing aching muscles as it soaked into him.

Tony smelled like herbs and menthol by the time Bucky was done, but he wasn’t feeling sore, either, so he could grin and bear it.

Dum Dum’s other guests had started arriving after sundown, and the bonfire in the front yard, surrounded by a brick pit lining, was brilliant and huge when they came out.

Roasting marshmallows and drinking spiced cider were the order of the evening. Tony spent most of his time leaning back against his fiance, wedged safely between Bucky’s thighs as he sat on a haybale. Tony listened to the stories that Bucky’s friends told, mostly screw ups on base and a few of Bucky saving people’s asses with a good shot.

Tony even, after being sworn to secrecy, learned why Dum Dum went by that particular moniker.

The Commandos -- their nickname for their unit -- were rougher than Tony’s university friends. They didn’t bother with the veneer of politeness. They’d seen death and gotten their hands dirty. Tony didn’t suffer under the delusion that they were better than his friends, but they were honest and affectionate with their friends. Tony had heard about the military bonds, but this was his first experience seeing them.

“How ya doin’, Tony?” Bucky leaned down, combed his fingers through Tony’s hair, ending with a rub of his thumb along the back of Tony’s neck.

“I could get used to this,” he responded, tipping his head back for a kiss.

“Yeah?” Bucky was pleased, eyes lighting up. He melted into Tony’s kiss, playful and light until Tony twisted to get a better angle.

It was nice. Tony had never been anywhere like this before; farms and the smell of hay, the flickering orange light of the bonfire. Unfamiliar voices. It felt… safe. “Yeah.”

 


	12. (Giving) Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky and Tony deal with the reality of living together and discovering what's really important.
> 
> Warning: Contains unbelievable levels of sap. Sorry.

“Yaaaaaaasha!” Nat was yelling as she pounded up the stairs and into the little flat. For someone who was a dancer and supposedly graceful, Nat often sounded like a herd of very small brontosauruses. “Yaaaaaaasha!”

She stopped dead two steps into the living room, scowling. “You’re not Yasha.”

Tony laughed, cynical. “How observant of you, dear sister.”

“You’re not my brother-in-law yet,” Nat said, hands on her hips. “Where’s Yasha?”

Tony flipped the channel on the television. Oh, look, something with a gun fight. _Flip_. Something with a man forcing a woman into a kiss to shut her up. _Flip_. More gun fighting. _Flip_. Tony sighed. It’d be nice to watch some television some time without feeling like he was being personally attacked in high definition. Oh, cooking show. That might be okay.

“He went out to get some take-away,” Tony said.  

And Tony was doing his best not to panic about everything. It’d been a bad day for both of them, starting out with a stupid argument about whose turn it was to do the dishes (for the record, it was Bucky’s turn and Tony was feeling both petty and guilty about feeling petty) and then they’d attempted to have some make-up sex that had gone terribly wrong when they discovered someone (Tony that time) had left half a bottle of juice on the bed and it spilled, soaking the comforter and sheets with orange juice. They’d had to put sexy times on hold to wash the linens, and by the time they were done with that, neither of them were in the mood to do more than try to be decent human beings another day.

Logically, Tony knew that Bucky wasn’t going to leave him over stupid fights. Logically, he knew the people on the television weren’t going to shoot him, either. Didn’t help with the stupid brain.

And the more stupid things happened, the snappier and uglier and prone to picking a fight Tony got until Bucky had grabbed his smokes and headed out to get dinner, rather than dealing with Tony and his attitude any longer. Tony wasn’t going to admit that his first reaction to that was “and stay out.”

“Hmph,” Nat said, flouncing into the kitchen. She pulled the vodka bottle out from under the sink. “I hope he brings enough for me. We have a celebration, tonight.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, mister pouty-pout face,” Nat said. She poured two shots and handed him one. “Drink with me.”

“What are we celebrating?” A little good news might help get Tony and Bucky out of their funk.

“Wait,” Nat said. She knocked back the shot and licked the droplets from the side of her glass. “I will not tell you first. Yasha would be cross with me.”

“We could form a team,” Tony said, a touch bitter. He drank down the vodka she poured for him. “People that your brother is pissed with.”

Nat gave him a sharp look, refilled the shot glasses. “You are arguing?”

Tony shrugged. “It’s not even important, you know. Just…”

“The pain of a dozen blisters,” Nat said.

God, Tony _hoped_ not; he’d seen Nat’s feet after some of her bad rehearsals, nights where the director made them do it again, and again, and again and she would drag herself home, feet bleeding and heels red and raw.

“I’m not that bad,” Tony protested.

“You are not,” Nat agreed. She poured them more shots.

“Just feel… shitty,” Tony admitted. “That I’m pissed at him about stupid shit.”

“Make a gratitude list,” Nat said. “My therapist tells me to do this every day, but that is ridiculous. If I must make a list every night, it becomes work, and I am not grateful for the things I have and love, I resent making the damn list. But sometimes, especially when I am feeling out of sorts, I sit down and make the list.”

“Coffee,” Tony said. That was easy.

“No, no,” Nat said. “We will make a written list.”

“You expect me to write after you dumped four shots of vodka into me?”

Nat’s look was so flat it could have served as a level. “Yes.”

Nat fetched notepads and ridiculously colored gel pens -- Tony’s was brilliant emerald green, hers was eggplant purple -- and an old-fashioned hour glass, the kind that actually had sand in it. Tony hadn’t seen anything like it in… well, maybe even ever, except on television and Nat actually slapped his hand when he tried to inspect it.

“Make your list.”

 _Nat’s ridiculousness_  
_Coffee_  
 _Waking up before the alarm goes off and being able to go back to sleep_  
 _Bucky loves me_

A small wince there, because Tony hadn’t exactly been loveable recently, but he supposed that was what _unconditionally_ meant. _I still love him, even when I’m mad._

 _loving Bucky_  
_Believing both of those things are true_  
 _The money_

Another flinch, because he also felt guilty about the Stark fortune; he hadn’t done anything to earn it except being born to the right parents. And having those same parents die unexpectedly. Because of the fucking money. He resented it even as he was grateful for the comfort it provided, for the fact that he didn’t have to worry. That he could pay Bucky’s hospital bills. All the things that the money could purchase, without consideration for all the things the money was. He made a mental note to get with his accountants and look at the current charity donations. Surely there were things he could do to even the score a little bit.

_The ability to make other people’s lives easier_

People, yes, he had some people in his life that he was grateful for.  
  
_Rhodey_  
 _Pepper_  
 _Jan_  
 _Bruce_

Tony made a note to call them all and get together for a lunch or dinner or something. He’d been neglecting his friendships. He wasn’t quite sure why, maybe something to do with Jan’s party and not wanting to look at his friends and remember that they’d seen him in the aftermath and fucking resenting that they’d seen him that way. _You won’t get past it unless you deal with it._

He was grateful for his mom, much as he missed her.

_Mom teaching me to play piano.  
The times she took me to the ballet._

Maria had loved the ballet; she was thrilled when she found out that Bucky’s sister was a dancer. They’d gone to the Nutcracker every year until Tony went off to college, and even then, she’d asked him every year if he wanted to go. He nursed a small regret that he’d said no last year, too eager to avoid questions about his lack of significant other. On the other hand, that had lead him to grabbing Bucky’s advertisement.

 _Bucky’s ridiculousness_  
_Bucky’s patience_  
 _Bucky’s terrible bedhead_

That had given him a bright spurt, first thing in the morning, on so many days. Bucky’s hair was shoulder length, thick and silky-soft, prone to curling up if it was humid or drizzly, and after sleeping on it, the whole thing had a mind and life of its own. Tony was almost convinced that Bucky’s hair was what lead to tales of the medusa with her crown of snakes.

_Bubblewrap_

Tony was prone to abusing his Amazon Now account and the last batch of stuff he needed without bothering to get the fuck off the sofa had come wrapped in yards of it. Tony’d put the widget aside without even playing with it, just so he could snap a few dozen air pockets.

_Doughnuts. Grapes. Peppermint frappuccinos. Good beer. Bad vodka. Really terrible marshmallow flavored vodka. Cold pizza for breakfast. Bucky’s tomato soup out of a mug when I’m not feeling well._

_Cheese._

_Cheese whiz._

_Stop judging me from across the living room Nat, I can feel the judgement here._

_Roller skates._

_Bucky’s kisses. Blow jobs. Sleepy morning sex._

There were a lot of other sex things to be grateful for, but he wasn’t sure if he and Nat were going to be exchanging lists, and Nat had made it perfectly clear that while she didn’t care that her brother was having sex, she really didn’t want to hear about it (or hear it) in any great detail.

_Metallica. AC/DC. Black Sabbath._

_Baby Metal._

Guilty pleasure that, and he was sure there were hundreds of hard-core metal fans that were going to come for his head-banging card for admitting it, but the Japanese jpop/heavy metal group were weirdly… cute, for lack of a better word. Like shiny, sparkly vampires, he couldn’t help but love it, even if people with sense, taste, and dignity thought they were awful.

Tony thought dignity was over-rated anyway.

 _Bucky’s eyes._  
_The way he looks at me_  
 _The way he looks at kitten videos_  
 _The fact that he shares stupid kitten videos with me_  
 _Because he knows I won’t look at them on my own_

_Bucky. Bucky Bucky Bucky Bucky._

_***_

November was a good time to take a cool down walk.

First, it was cool -- cold, even. Walking angrily while bundled up in sweatshirts and a hoodie and a coat and a scarf, with gloves and hands shoved in your pockets was oddly satisfying.

Sweat formed and dried against Bucky’s throat, keeping him mostly comfortable. His chest ached as he dragged in cold air and expelled it in a puff of steamy condensation. Like being a dragon.

All he needed was claws and the ability to fly away from his problems for a while.

Which just got him feeling weirdly guilty because there were so many people who would commit murder (not funny, brain) to have the kinds of problems that Bucky had. Smokin’ hot boyfriend who was smart, funny, and rich? What was there to complain about?

The fucking dishes and who left their trash around the house?

Like, what even _was_ that?

Of course, Tony’s desire to throw money at problems was a bit annoying. Bucky’d taken the phone away from him at one point in the middle of calling a plumber for a loose flap in the tank that had taken Bucky all of fifteen minutes to fix.

Except Bucky could kinda see Tony’s point.

The kind of money Tony had, the kind he made just _existing_ , it seemed a little silly to waste his time putting in new toilet guts and saving a hundred dollars on a plumber fee. Bucky wasn’t even sure why they still lived in Bucky’s tiny, overcrowded flat. Tony’d never even brought it up, but after seeing where Tony had grown up, it was strange that Tony didn’t seem stifled in his place.

Didn’t really make Bucky feel better about the situation. It was a little easier, back when he was bodyguarding for Tony, but that had gone over like a lead balloon. Epic fail.

Bucky didn’t like feeling useless. It bent back to the times when his father had yelled at him about dreaming his life away. The military had gone and shattered that dreamy boy, left him with a man who needed work to have worth.

It wasn’t fair to take it out on Tony, though. Bucky’s ego problems were his own damn problems. He shouldn’t need Tony to prop up his self-esteem, or worse, trying to make Tony feel small so that Bucky could feel better.

That wasn’t the man he wanted to be.

Of course, he didn’t know who he was. He hadn’t been Sergeant Barnes since an IED had tried to erase half of him from existence.

He’d been a bouncer, a bodyguard. He defined himself by what he did, and now that he wasn’t doing anything, he didn’t know who he was.

Tony, at least, had school, and eventually he’d have a company to run. He had court dates and therapy visits.

Bucky had four walls and an inferiority complex.

 _Fuck_.

What… what the hell did he do now?

“Hey, man,” someone said, and Bucky jerked to a stop. People didn’t usually talk to him, especially when he was walking with his resting bitchface on. “Spare a dollar?”

Bucky blinked, suddenly aware of how cold it was. Looked down at the man sitting in the lee side of a staircase. Hard to tell how thin he was, bundled up in a bunch of discards. His face was covered in a thin beard, but he smiled when Bucky actually made eye contact. It was a harsh sort of smile, the guy had a face like a brick wall.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He dug into his back pocket for his wallet. He didn’t have anything smaller than a twenty in there. What the hell. Bucky thumbed out three of them. Twisted into a squat. Handed them over.

The guy had a young man’s face but old-man hands, the knuckles swollen and bent, fingers red and peeling.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome. I’m Bucky, it’s nice to meet you. Cold out here, today, yeah?”

“Oh, man, yeah,” the man said. “Name’s Frank Castle. An’ it’s one of those days, man. Fallish wind is blowin, and it finds the hole in your pants, blows straight up the crack of your ass, don’t it just?”

Bucky couldn’t help a rueful smile at that, pretty damn good description, really. “When was the last time you had a warm bed?”

Frank shrugged a shoulder. “What, man, you writin’ a book?” Bucky couldn’t imagine how bad things had to be to sit on a street and beg for cash, what people probably said and thought and knowing that no way in hell it was ever going to be enough. Little booze to cut the chill, let you forget about that empty feeling in your stomach.

“No,” Bucky said, honestly, “just… come into some money recently and I want to help.”

Frank gave him a sharp glance. “Havin’ a crisis of conscience man, wanna pay back karma by doing a good deed. Fuck off, dude.”

“The room’s no less warm if I’m getting feelgood points out of it,” Bucky pointed out. His father had never held any traction with beggars and homeless before. Bucky’d given a dollar to a wino one day and his dad had yelled at him about it. _You feed a homeless guy, give him shelter, and what happens? Well, you just have to feed him again tomorrow. You got extra money, put it someplace where it’ll do some good, kiddo._

Frank tipped his head. “Yeah, truth.”

“Come on, then,” Bucky said, offering a hand up. “I’ll buy you dinner and get you a room for the night.”

“I ain’t gonna blow you,” Frank said, scowling.

“I’m not asking,” Bucky said. He shuddered inwardly. What a fucking world this was, that even something as simple as giving a hungry guy some food was suspicious.

Frank scorned the offered hand up and scrambled to his feet.

“Christ, you’re a big guy.”

“Don’t you forget it, neither,” Frank said. “Street people go missin’ all the time. I ain’t gonna be one of ‘em.”

Bucky nodded. He pulled out his phone, popped off a brief text to Tony to let him know he’d be a bit later than expected. Checked the map to see what food was nearby.

Chinese take-away acquired and it wasn’t too far for a Day’s Inn. He got a room for two days while Frank lurked under the staircase, aware that any hotel check-in manager wasn’t going to want a streeter in their room. Bucky cringed a bit; he knew what Frank must be thinking, must be worried about. How easy it would be for someone like Bucky to make someone like Frank vanish.

“So, what now?” Frank asked, arms crossed over his chest.

Bucky put his load of food down on the tiny table near the television. “Now nothing. You can eat. Have a shower. Get a few night’s sleep. Here’s my cell number. You can call me if you want.”

“You just doing your good deed, and poof, vanishing?”

“I ain’t gotten that far in my head yet, pal,” Bucky admitted.

“Well, whoever you killed that you need this much redemption, I hope he was an asshole,” Frank said.

“Take care of yourself, Frank,” Bucky said.

Frank was already deep in a paper container of Kung Pao chicken. “Thanksgiving came early, got it.” He gave Bucky a thumbs up and turned his attention back to more important things. Like food.

***

Tony wasn’t always as good with people as he thought he should be. Genius, right? He should be able to figure things out, except the one thing that he had figured out was that people didn’t make sense. They weren’t like circuits that traveled from A to B to C neatly, and they weren’t like science, where doing the exact same thing got you the exact same results.

“Biology,” one of his teachers had stressed, “is not chemistry.”

A biological system could mutate. Could randomize. Could end up being purple for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and sometimes you could track that reason down, and sometimes you just had to throw up your hands and say “magic.”

People were huge biological systems. Not just the meat and bones parts, either. He’d taken a few classes on human bio, just to round out his education a little, and just the basic studies of pharmaceutical science made his head hurt. Nothing in pharma made sense at all. _Theory_ , where everything worked, except medication, where none of it did what it was supposed to and things that did were nonsense and should not have done that at all.

But even Tony could tell that Bucky was in a vastly improved state of mind by the time he got home. He hugged and kissed his sister and then hugged and kissed Tony with a little more heat. Apologized for the take-away being cold and needing to be microwaved, and Tony might have raised his eyebrows a little when he realized that Bucky had walked all the way to Genghis Connie’s rather than grabbing the slightly less expensive and much, much closer (if not as good, Genghis Connie’s made the best egg rolls!) No1. China.

“Well, this explains where you’ve been,” Tony said, taking his chicken and cashew out of the microwave. He was reminded, stuffing a mouthful of saucy chicken into his mouth, that Bucky paid attention. When he’d stormed out to _get dinner_ , which was code for _I need to not throw something at you right now_ , he hadn’t taken an order, or gotten Tony’s opinion on what to eat. But Bucky knew… he knew Tony’s preferences, had _remembered_ them. Sure, Tony sometimes liked to wander off the beaten path and get something else -- particularly at No1, which did not do very good eggrolls, and he usually got the crab wonton there instead -- but he’d commented aside once that Connie’s did the best chicken cashew.

And after a fight, where they’d yelled at each other and gotten exasperated and had to stomp off to sulk like recalcitrant toddlers for fuck’s sake… Bucky had remembered. Had, as the phrase went, gone the extra mile (quite literally) for one of Tony’s favorites.

Tony was honest enough with himself to know that if he hadn’t been doing gratitude exercises with Nat, he might not have _fucking noticed_.

Bucky warmed up hot and sour soup for himself, handed his sister a packet of crunchies for her egg drop. “Yeah, I was thinking. Sorry it took me so long.” He gave Tony a long, significant look. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

Which was code for I don’t want to talk in front of my sister. Which was understandable. Having an audience for those kind of conversations was awkward at best. Tony stuffed another mouthful of chicken into his face and sat on his mental hands to keep from dragging Bucky off to their bedroom and demand to talk now.

“So,” Nat said, running her spoon up her chin to catch bits of spillover soup. “If you do not want to talk, I will talk. I have news.”

Oh, right. She’d come home with good news, she’d said. “Spill, Nat,” Tony encouraged. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Nat put her food down, finished chewing, and wiped her lips with her fingers.

“I am going to be Clara,” she said. “Dottie Underwood’s pregnant.”

Nat had been Vivandière at first, one of the doll-toys, and also a snowflake, and a Marzipan dancer, but she’d been understudy to the lead-dancer’s role, the child Clara, to whom the Nutcracker Prince was given. Dottie, who was lead, had been prima donna for a long time. Nat had barely been even looking at the role, because no one expected anything to happen to Dottie.

Bucky practically knocked over his food getting up to hug his sister. “Oh, Tash, that’s… that’s a leading role! That’s great!”

“It is… a great opportunity,” Nat said. “She is pregnant with the producer’s child. There have been rumors that she will not be coming back after the baby. We shall see about that, but in the meanwhile, I have this role. And if I perform with excellence, I may be prima dona for the spring show as well. But I must practice, all the time, now. There will be no second chances.”

“Anything we can do to make it easier,” Bucky promised.

“Yeah, congrats,” Tony said, and he joined them in the group hug, happy for his little family. Happy for his to-be sister.

Just… happy.

 _Grateful_.


	13. Marry Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is it!
> 
> Thank you all for sticking it out with me through this long, somewhat traumatic story... It's a lot longer and darker than I originally meant it to be, and these characters mean a LOT to me. I hope they've meant a lot to you!

Bucky had been to the ballet dozens, maybe hundreds of times. His sister had grown up as a ballerina, although usually in secondary and sometimes line roles, and of course, as her brother, he was required to set foot in the theater once in a while and cheer her on.

Depending on the troup or the show or the theater, Bucky sometimes had to pay for tickets, or sometimes Tash got them on discount for him, or sometimes free ones, depending. Sometimes, Bucky had taken a date.

He had a little pair of binoculars that fit in the breast pocket of his old sport coat, for the occasions where he’d been relegated to deeply discounted balcony seats and recognizing his sister from anything other than her flaming red hair had been all but impossible.

But he’d never sat in the front row before, close enough to smell the powder and makeup and the dancer’s sweat. Close enough to be able to peer into the orchestra pit or watch the musicians.

Tony, of course, had attended operas and plays and ballets his whole life; his mother was a huge fan and supporter of the arts, so he’d been used to it by the time he was ten, although he’d always paid more attention to the crowd than the show. Even as a child, his parents expected him to make necessary business and political contacts, the things he’d need when he was older and in charge of Stark Industries himself.

Which meant Tony was, actually, prepared when Jarvis opened the car door to let them out, and they were surrounded by photographers, beau monde, and other influentials. Tony, who was not quite twenty-two, quickly made the rounds, shaking hands with people he knew, and didn’t know. Introducing his fiance, making a mention of his soon-to-be sister-in-law who was performing in the lead this evening, and yes, a stroke of luck, they were very proud of her, oh, yes, Natalia Romanov.

Yes, hello, Mr. Stone, it’s been quite a while. Thank you for your condolences. Yes, I remember your son, thank you, it’s good to see you again.

Bucky was awash in sound and sensation, camera flashes and voices. He did his best to smile, to remember to not flinch away when someone touched him, to parrot back a few of Tony’s choice phrases as if Bucky had a mind of his own, even if that didn’t seem to be true at the moment.

Finally, they were inside, and seated. Tony kept twisting around in his seat to talk to people, or to look around, while Bucky tried very hard to look at nothing but his program, reading the new, expanded bio that was written underneath his sister’s picture, and to not crawl out of his skin.

“Sorry about that,” Tony said, waving it off as soon as the lights flickered to indicate it was time for the show to start. “I sort of forgot, but I guess when I bought tickets, the rumor mill spun up. It’ll probably get worse, rather than better, with time.” He gave Bucky a wobbly sort of smile, searching his face earnestly to make sure Bucky wasn’t mad, or maybe rethinking the whole dating Tony Stark thing. “I’m actually surprised and a little pleased that they’ve left us alone up ‘til now.”

Bucky, on the other hand, gripped Tony’s hand hard enough that he knew Tony’s knuckles were probably aching. Far from being scared off (okay, he was scared, but it wasn’t the sort that was going to send him running from Tony) he was becoming more aware that Tony had… _choices_. That he’d tied himself to a scarred and wounded vet who barely had enough brains to get through high school.

“Yeah, wasn’t expectin’ that,” Bucky muttered. He didn’t want to look too worried; he’d seen what telescopic lenses could do, and he suspected that both he and Tony were under a lot of scrutiny this evening.

“Just ignore it,” Tony suggested. “If they don’t see you doing anything interesting, they’ll make something up.”

“What… sort of interesting do they want?”

Tony smiled, wide and brilliant. “Well, we can give them this to talk about, tonight.” Tony leaned in, put his left hand on Bucky’s shoulder to show off the engagement ring, leaned in, and kissed him, light and sweet, on the mouth, with just a flicker of tongue darting out to taste Bucky’s lip, before retreating.

Bucky flushed, and couldn’t help but swat Tony with the rolled up program, generally acting more like a kid than someone who was rich and influential. “You think they’re gonna take a picture of that?”

“If someone didn’t,” Tony said, and even then, he only had eyes for Bucky, glowing and soft and loving, “then there’ll be some very disappointed editors in the morning.”

The house lights flickered again, and the audience settled. Tony kept one hand on Bucky’s arm, or his knee, shifting restlessly the way Tony tended to do, but always in contact. It was… sweet. Soothing. Warming. Perfect. Bucky rested his hand over Tony’s for a while, and directed his attention to the stage.

As Clara, the girlchild gifted the magical doll, Bucky’s sister was present on stage throughout most of the production. Her makeup was softer and she looked much younger than her twenty-five years. Her smile was nearly incandescent as she moved and danced, fingers touching the dancer who played the Nutcracker Prince.

They spun together and away, the dances graceful, seemingly effortless (although Bucky knew just how much effort Tash had put into her craft) and beautiful. If Tash put so much as a foot wrong, missed a beat, Bucky knew that things could get very uncomfortable for her; the director would not take her lack of time in role into account.

If she made any wrong moves, Bucky couldn’t tell, and her face was still shining with joy by the end of the show.

When the show was over, Tony passed up a bouquet of yellow and red roses that they’d gotten for her, and Tash held them, cradled in her arms, as she took her bows.

The reviews the next day, tucked in between gossip items about the CEO of Stark Industries and his boyfriend, were favorable.

Tony took the entire troupe out for a celebratory revel; renting out an expensive nightclub for the evening, and making it an exclusive event, courtesy of the newly formed Maria Stark Foundation for the Arts.

***

Christmas was rapidly approaching, and Tony had probably gone way overboard. He was feeling better about-- well, damn near everything really. He’d come to a reluctant acceptance of his parents’ deaths and the subsequent nightmare of his inheritance. He had a boyfriend he was crazy about. He had a better idea of which friends were real and steadfast, and which ones had been only interested in what he could do for them.

Guilty as he felt about admitting it, there was a weight lifted from his shoulders when he realized he no longer had to live up to (or live down to) his father’s expectations.

There was a brief period where he wanted to just throw everything away. Keep as much money as he and Bucky (and Nat) would need, and get rid of the rest of it. Forget everything his father had ever wanted, and just… be happy.

But then Bucky had gotten into his charity works, and Tony knew he couldn’t just be that selfish. There were a lot of people, beyond his immediate, tiny family, that depended on Stark Industries, both for jobs and for the products that he produced. Tony couldn’t quite let that go.

But he was happier.

So, shopping. He’d gotten both his fiance and his soon-to-be sister new vehicles, a huge wardrobe that Jan had helped him select, because Tony knew his own colors and styles because Jan had drilled them into him when he was a teenager, but he didn’t have her keen eye for fashion.

New furniture and decor, that would upgrade their little apartment. Even Tony would admit that new housing without their input would be… too much.

A generous allotment toward the charitable foundation that he was putting together; like the Arts foundation, he’d named it after his mother, but the surprise would be that he was putting Bucky in charge, to decide what works the Maria Stark Charity Foundation supported, and what grants they filled, and how they were going to do their fundraising. He’d gotten a consulting company to help with the ground-up work, but he was hoping that Bucky would like it.

Something for him to do, to feel useful (Tony already knew Bucky was useful, and good, and it had nothing to do with the work he did, but the person he was. But he also understood that, personality-wise, Bucky was not cut out to be a trust-fund kid.)

Between shopping and wrapping and planning and plotting, Tony and Bucky decorated the little apartment with Christmas ornaments and tinsel and lights. Ana had made them up a gorgeous meal that only needed to be reheated day of, and that took up most of the space in their refrigerator, including a stuffed goose and an actual figgy pudding that Tony knew from experience was delicious.

When Christmas Eve rolled around, Bucky was eager, practically vibrating with excitement.

“What’s gotten into you, babe?” Tony asked, leaning back on the sofa, head against Bucky’s thigh. “You've been acting overcaffeinated all day?”

“You know, it’s been almost a year now, since we met,” Bucky said, apropos of nothing.

“Since you kissed me stupid on the hood of my own car,” Tony said, smiling. “I remember.”

“And you turned me down for sex,” Bucky pointed out.

“You didn’t have to bring that up,” Tony said, pouting. “I was kicking myself for being an idiot the second the door closed behind you.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Bucky said. “I think we both needed that… wake up call that it could be something more than just a one night thing.”

“Yeah? What kind of thing is it, then?”

“A rest of my life kinda thing,” Bucky said, dropping a kiss on Tony’s upturned mouth.

“Yeah, mine, too,” Tony said, sighing into the kiss.

“Why wait, then?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, you don’t want all that fancy planning and publicity, and it’s not like either of us has all that many friends who’ll be sad if we just run off an’ get married,” Bucky said, reasonably.

“What are you suggesting?”

Bucky glanced up at the clock. “There. It’s past midnight. I want you to open your present.”

“Pretty sure that’s against the rules, babe,” Tony said. “Won’t Santa Claus come and smite us with his giant candy cane of doom if we do that?”

“I’m willing to risk it, if you are.”

Tony stuck his hand out, mock-eagerly. “So, what’s this present that I’m risking death by peppermint for?”

Bucky reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope. It wasn’t a particularly decorate envelope or anything. A few pieces of paper shifted around inside. Curious, Tony sat up, flipped the envelope over and opened it.

Inside were four plane tickets. First class. To Las Vegas.

A neatly printed itinerary, including hotel reservations and…

“Seriously?” Tony held out the last pamphlet. _The Drive-Thru Chapel_.

“Why not? We can fly out, get married, and be home by day after tomorrow.”

“You want to get married on Christmas?”

“Ain’t havin’ you the best present I’m ever gonna get?”

“God, you’re a sap,” Tony accused Bucky fondly.

“Ana will maim us if we don’t her Christmas dinner,” Tony said, wavering.

“It’ll keep. We’ll eat it when we get back,” Bucky cajoled. “Come on, honey. We know we want to be together for the rest of our lives. Let’s… just start now?”

“God, I love you,” Tony said, surrendering. “Impulse wedding in Vegas. Jan is gonna flip her lid.”

Bucky plucked two of the tickets out of the stack. “Jan. And my sister,” he said, “are already coming with us.”

“You are insane. Traveling on Christmas…” Tony tried to suppress his grin, but wasn’t at all successful.

“It’s first class,” Bucky pointed out. “You’ll be fine.”

“True.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes,” Tony said. He threw his arms around Bucky’s neck and leaned in to be kissed and hugged and petted.

“Merry Christmas, Tony.”

“Wouldn’t that be… Marry Christmas, Tony?”

Bucky squinched one eye closed. “Oh, that’s terrible. No, no, nevermind, wedding’s off.”

“You already bought the tickets,” Tony pointed out.

“True.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

***

The wedding itself was cheesy, but romantic. The limo pulled through the drive thru, just like they were going to order cheeseburgers and milkshakes. Bucky forked over the fee in cash, along with a ziplock bag containing all their identification to make things legal. The “priest,” who was dressed as Elvis, except wearing a kilt for reasons that Bucky didn’t want to examine too closely, read off the wedding vows while a violinist serenaded them outside the vehicle, playing _Can’t Help Falling in Love_.

There was a photographer, and a single flower for the ‘bride’ which Tony claimed immediately, put between his teeth, and mock swooned while Bucky repeated back his vows. Jan was rolling video on her cell phone and Tash kept correcting the priest for the proper vows until Jan smacked her with the little cheesy pillow she was holding the rings on.

Which meant they had to scramble around on the floor of the limo to find the rings.

At the end of the ceremony, Tony and Bucky signed their names, kissed their grooms, and were presented with a little lock engraved with their names so they could “throw away the key.”

The whole thing took less than an hour, including the drive over from the airport and back to the hotel.

Tony took the little key out of Bucky’s hand right in front of their hotel, kissed him, hot and wet and eager, then tossed the key in the hotel’s water fountain, where it sank to the bottom amid hundreds of dollars of quarters and other loose change.

Jan finished filming, grabbed hold of Tash’s hand and declared they were going to go play slots until they won a million dollars or got falling down drunk. Given his sister’s tolerance for alcohol, Bucky wasn’t sure what the outcome of that was going to be.

Tony threaded his fingers through Bucky’s and tugged at him. “Let’s go see this room you picked out,” he suggested, “Mr. Stark. I can’t believe you decided to take my surname, that’s just… you know, weird.”

Bucky shrugged. “It was a political move, really,” he said. “Being head of the Maria Stark Foundation and everything, thing’s’ll go smoother.” And another, more desperate reason; Bucky didn’t want anything more than to belong with Tony for the rest of his life. But he wasn’t going to say that, not right now. Tony’d already accused him of hopeless romanticism more than once in the last two days.

People turned and looked at them while they strode through the hotel’s lobby; either because they were both wearing those stupid tuxedo tee-shirts and holding hands, or because rumor had already spread and people knew that Tony Stark was in Las Vegas. Bucky couldn’t tell, and frankly, he didn’t really care. He was getting more used to ignoring people.

Tony leaned up against the check in desk, that gorgeous ass pushed backward just enough to make it obvious, how round and perfect and touchable it was. _Mine._ A sizzle of heat raced down Bucky’s spine and it didn’t matter how tired he was, it didn’t matter that the check in clerk was puttering around on the computer, all that mattered was that in a few minutes time, Tony was going to be pushing Bucky down into the mattress and staking his first and final claim.

Going through the check-in process with a raging erection was not as simple as it could have been.

They barely got into the room before Tony had pushed Bucky up against the wall and was rubbing himself against Bucky’s thigh. “Baby,” Bucky said, gasping at the zinging heat of sensation, “I paid for a bed, an’ you’re gonna fuck me against the wall?” Not, mind, that Bucky was complaining. He’d take his man any way he could get him.

For a long moment, Tony didn’t even acknowledge the remark, and then Bucky found himself turned and herded backward across the room until he was laying supine on the bed, Tony straddling his hips.

Tony was kissing Bucky with his entire body, mouth and fingers that wandered over Bucky’s skin, with his hips that ground up, sensually, against Bucky’s, and with his heart, that pounded in time with Bucky’s own, hard and urgent.

“Oh, god, Tony,” Bucky managed between kisses and breaths, “don’t stop. Don’t _ever_ stop.”

“Don’t know that I could,” Tony said. He licked the shell of Bucky’s ear, nipped at the lobe, breathing hot and heavy into it. Bucky shivered, his arms around Tony’s neck, holding his husband -- dear god! His husband! -- to him for dear life. “Even if I wanted to, and I decidedly do not want to stop.”

“That’s good, baby,” Bucky murmured. He let his head fall back against the mattress and Tony took advantage, immediately moving from molesting his ear to attacking Bucky’s throat with hot, wet, needy kisses.

Tony’s hands were under Bucky’s shirt, sliding up his rib cage, thumbs rubbing Bucky’s nipples until he arched up off the bed, groaning with need. “Oh, that’s sweet, look at you,” Tony said. “So gorgeous.”

“All yours,” Bucky promised. “Tonight, tomorrow. Every night, forever. Can’t wait t’ have you in me.”

Tony shivered, hands going still and his mouth dropping open. “God, the way you talk, honey,” Tony said.

“Incurable romantic, I know,” Bucky said. “Still th’ truth.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “But… I--uh. I want _you_.”

“You have me,” Bucky said, leaning up on one elbow, puzzled. “You know that.”

“I meant…” Tony made an incomprehensible motion with his head, mouth twisting with a combination of desire and desperation, and then… oh. _Oh_.

“Are you su--”

“Let’s not talk about it, okay? I don’t want to talk, I just want to do it. I want to not think about why we haven’t, and I don’t want to explain myself. I just… want you to make love with me, will you do that? Can you do that for me, honey?”

Bucky didn’t say anything for a long moment; he wanted to, oh, god, he wanted to, but not at the expense of Tony’s peace of mind. He knew why Tony wanted to be on top, to be in control, all the time, and Bucky didn’t have a problem handing that over to Tony, as often as he wanted. And then he kissed his husband, as sweet and tender as he could manage. “Tony, baby, you make me so happy,” he said. “I know. I understand. Thank you--” _for trusting me, for wanting me, for loving me_ “--for everything. If you--” _need me to stop, if you get scared_ “--to do something different, just say?”

“Just love me.”

“I can do that, honey. Oh, god, I can do that.”

Bucky took his time, divesting both of them of clothing, touching Tony, exploring his body. Kissing every inch of that golden, glorious skin. Whenever Tony tried to nudge or move him along, or hurry him up, Bucky just blinked at him a few times, and said, soft, “Do you want me, or not?”

Tony finally lay back, content to let himself by petted and adored and worshipped, hands in Bucky’s hair, stroking the back of Bucky’s neck.

Tony tasted good, an overlay of his cologne and salt and Tony’s own unique flavor. Bucky lost himself in the easy rhythm of it, could have gone for hours with nothing more than sweet kisses and urgent touches. Listening to the irresistibly sweet sounds that Tony made as Bucky teased and tempted.

But he finally got ‘round to satisfying them both. Lubed his fingers up and went to work, slowly opening Tony up. “That’s it, sweetheart, let me… gonna make you feel so good, I promise,” he said. Tony stiffened, shuddering like it was the first time he’d ever been touched. “It’s all right. Just relax. I got you. I’m not going to let anything bad happen.”

It took more coaxing than Bucky wanted, terrified of making a mistake, or pushing Tony into something he didn’t want, but every time Bucky tried to back down, or change the path they were on, Tony would whine, or grab hold of him, or insist. “Stay. Please, I can… I want,” Tony panted, breathless.

Finally, _finally_ Tony relaxed, his muscles going slack, letting Bucky entice him open, get him slick and ready.

“That’s right, that’s it, oh, god, Tony, open up for me,” Bucky said. He poised himself between Tony’s thighs and paused again. “You know, you c’n ride me, if you’d rather.” A suggestion, letting Tony stay in control of things.

Tony didn’t answer, bringing his legs up to wrap around Bucky’s waist. “I know what you’re doing, and you have no idea how sweet it is, but if you don’t fuck me, right now, I may lose my damn mind. Please, please, Bucky, baby, I need it…”

“Oh, god, Tony, I…” Bucky couldn’t wait any more. The hot urgency of Tony’s body was enchanting, seductive. He thrust in, breaching Tony’s body, seeking that heat. “I need you so much, baby.”

Tony hissed, wriggled, body giving way slow, with shuddering muscles and deep, sharp breaths. “Oh, god, that feels so--” For a long moment, while Bucky died inside, Tony didn’t finish the thought, and Bucky didn’t dare move without Tony’s say so, but staying there, sinking into that luscious, tight fire, was torture. “--strange.”

Bucky couldn’t help it, he tucked his head down, resting his forehead on Tony’s chest and barked out a laugh. “It gets better,” he promised.

“I _know_ ,” Tony said, twisting his mouth up. “I’m not a virgin, I just…” Tony shifted his hips and Bucky slid deeper, groaning with need. “Come on, honey, I got you. Come on, come on.” Tony rolled his hips up to meet Bucky, heels digging into Bucky’s waist, and that was… that was _perfect_.

Bucky moved without volition, his body taking on a slow, steady, primitive rhythm, each thrust accompanied by the mingled sounds of he and Tony’s breath. Tony was so perfect, so responsive, he rocked into it, matching Bucky stroke for stroke and thrust for thrust, creating an undeniable, urgent harmony. Bucky wasn’t sure he’d ever felt anything like it, wanted to cherish and love and protect and devour Tony all at the same time. Kiss him, love him, surround him. He wanted everything from Tony, wanted to give Tony every little bit of himself.

Reaching a hand in between their bodies, Bucky worked at Tony’s cock, stroking, teasing, letting Tony fuck up into his fist. “Oh, that’s perfect, oh, god, reach for it, Tony, come on, come with me.”

Tony shouted, hoarse and desperate, under him. Come splattered against Bucky’s chest, dripped over his hand, and Tony clenched up, muscles tightening like a velvet glove as Bucky thrust and plunged, releasing himself on Tony, in Tony. Oh, god, oh, god. He shuddered a few times as aftershocks trembled through him. He collapsed, a heavy weight over Tony, wanting nothing more than to sink into Tony’s embrace and stay there forever.

After a while, he knew he was probably getting heavy. Made an attempt to roll off, even though his body still felt composed of rubbery, wet spaghetti.

“No, stay,” Tony said, keeping his arms around Bucky’s back and snuggling his face against Bucky’s chest. “I like feeling you on me. S’like… safe.”

“I’ll squish you,” Bucky protested, and rolled him both onto their sides. “See, this is better, right?” He withdrew, spent, from Tony’s body, and yanked the blankets over them as body heat seeped away.

Tony had his eyes closed, mouth open, looking dreamy, well-loved. Content. “Jus’... stay with me”

“Always, baby,” Bucky promised. He gathered Tony into his arms, held him close. Kissed his hair. “Always.”


End file.
